Infamy
by fuzzy oranges
Summary: The return of a deadly rival sparks controversy within the BAU team. Will they be able to set aside their personal grudges to catch the ruthless killer that got away with permanently injuring one of their own? Sequel to Habitual. CaseFic. Complete!
1. Prologue

**Title: Infamy**

**Summary**: The return of a deadly rival sparks controversy within the BAU team. Will they be able to set aside their personal grudges to catch the ruthless killer that got away with permanently injuring one of their own? Sequel to Habitual. CaseFic.

**Rating:** K+ for some cursing, violence, and disturbing imagery.

**Disclaimer**: We do not own Criminal Minds or its characters. Although, we can say that we own Special Agent Megan Clarke. We own her hard.

**Dedication**: Dedicated to those who enjoyed _Habitual _and wanted to see the storyline to continue! We didn't forget about you guys!

**akaccino's A/N**: It's been quite a lot of time since _Habitual. _I hope that you have hung in there with us! If you didn't read Habitual, please do! It is crucial to our second collaborated story, _Infamy's, _storyline. Enjoy it!

**dieselwriter's A/N**: We're baaaaAAAAaaaack! And yes, before you ask, this prologue is, in fact, a flashback.

Prologue

* * *

><p><em>In this, our age of infamy, Man's choice is but to be a tyrant, traitor, prisoner: no other choice has he.<br>_-Aleksandr Pushkin

_Washington, DC  
>December 3rd <em>

Emily Prentiss could feel the adrenaline pounding through her veins as she raced after Hotch, taking the stairs two at a time. Derek had already far surpassed them, leaping three steps for each of their two, while Reid and Rossi followed at her heels.

Morgan held the old door leading from the staircase to the third and final floor of the forlorn hotel open, and Hotch led the way into the hallway. Knowing their UnSub would be located on the south side of the building, their leader placed a finger to his lips before pointing at Rossi and Morgan and then farther down the hall. It was obvious what he wanted: not knowing which room the UnSub was currently residing in, the best method to find him without warning him of their presence would be to enter each room, and the fastest way to do that was to split up.

Rossi and Morgan jogged as quietly as possible to the rooms farthest away from the staircase while Prentiss, Reid and Hotch started with those closest.

Prentiss went to the second door on the left side of the hall when Hotch took the first. It was times like these she felt she would have made a decent skydiver; although her nerves were jangling her hand remained steady on her gun. She was pleasantly surprised when the door opened at her touch, but disappointed a few moments later at finding the surprisingly large room completely empty.

The female agent kept her senses acute to the noises of her comrades as she continued down the hallway, opening doors (slamming them open with a less-than-subtle shoulder shove when necessary) and clearing rooms. She was continually shocked at not only the size of the motel rooms but also how thick the walls were; whenever she was in the room she had a harder time hearing the rest of her team. A heavy weight lined the pit of her stomach; while she was pleased that the UnSub would be less likely to hear them coming, she was afraid that she might miss hearing cries for assistance from her colleagues.

They were slowly yet methodically eliminating hotel rooms, and Prentiss had to derive amusement at seeing Morgan bust down doors in the corner of her eye, knowing that he was probably enjoying this immensely.

Hotch was once again in the room on her left and Reid about to enter on her right when she broke into her next room. She entered the threshold, sweeping her weapon as she passed the restroom to check the far corner of the bedroom that was out of her initial line of sight.

Her heart leapt in her throat at finding a young man crouching by the window, a rifle set up on a stand at his side.

"FBI!" her voice rang out, but she internally flinched at hearing Reid break down his door next to hers at the same time, certain he had drowned her out. "Sir, I need you to step away slowly."

The man, who Prentiss thought couldn't have been older than 25, froze in his actions but made no movement to indicate he would comply with her orders.

"FBI?" his face turned toward her, but he never made eye contact. "Good, that's good."

She really hated hearing that eerie calmness from him.

"Step away slowly and put your hands in the air," she took a step towards the doorway, wondering if she could call out to Hotch or Reid without causing the UnSub to panic.

Prentiss quickly realized it might be a bit late for that as she watched him raise his arms, noticing the blatantly obvious detonator in his right hand.

"He said you'd catch up to me eventually...he knows everything," the young man turned towards her slowly, eyes averted and hands still in the air in an act of compliance.

The bombs strapped to his chest proved otherwise.

"He?" she felt her voice should have been far less serene than it sounded to her. "Who are you talking about?"

"He is my master, and I am his protégé," his charcoal eyes finally locked on hers, flickering with a wild fire that made a chill run down her spine. "He taught me everything, he knows everything. He knew you'd come, and he prepared me."

She heard movement behind her and found Hotch standing in the doorway, watching her with a dawning comprehension. She had no doubt what was just about to happen and likewise knew what she would have to do.

She swung the door in her boss' stunned face.

"You will never catch him."

And he released the trigger.

* * *

><p><strong>akaccino's AN: **As we always say, please stick with the storyline, even if it is a tad bit confusing at the beginning! Posting chapter one tomorrow, and after that, expect updates every Monday! Ta-ta!

**dieselwriter's A/N: **In case anyone had wondered what happened to Prentiss in our storyline, well, here she is! We didn't forget her at all! Get ready, because the fun is just about to start. ;)


	2. Chapter One

**akacinno's A/N**: Here we continue! Thanks for the reviews! : )

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Now begins the part where we pick up from Habitual. Seriously, don't bother with this chapter if you haven't read our first story. Confusion will run abound!

Anything in _italics _this chapter represents a flashback.

Chapter One

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><p><em>Quantico, Virginia<br>April 23rd_

Hotch yawned and blinked his eyes. He sat up and rolled his stiff neck and shoulders. With the flight reaching its end, some of the agents were stirring; Rossi's snoring had ceased and Hotch could see him staring out the jet window. Morgan's eyes were also opened. His headphones were still around his head as he sat up and collected his things.

When Hotch saw Agent Reid, he raised a dark eyebrow; Clarke was still asleep, her head resting on Reid's bony shoulder. Reid was wide awake, his extreme discomfort read clearly in his wide eyes and pursed lips as he sought out Morgan's aid without speaking.

Hotch smirked slightly but did nothing to aid the doctor.

The plane landed moments later, causing a very entertaining scene for Morgan when the wheels touched down and Clarke was jolted awake. A deep flush spread across her face when she looked up at Reid's tight sympathetic smile, realizing what she had done unconsciously. Her babbled apologizes mixed with Reid's almost overwhelming reassurances that he didn't mind.

Entering the BAU, Morgan was still teasing Clarke, who was approximately the same shade as a very ripe tomato. The team made their way to each of their desks to collect their things to head home. Nearly everyone was yawning and rubbing their sleepy eyes after a long, late flight home.

"I know we're all tired," Hotch said to his team, Morgan yawning widely to validate his announcement. "So I want you all to get home safely and take the day to rejuvenate. I'll see you Friday morning."

The group gave a tired cheer and each headed to their respective desk to gather their belongings.

Reid gave a small chuckle and Clarke looked up quickly.

"What's so funny?" she asked, still sensitive after her embarrassment, as she placed a few folders into her bag.

He shook his head slightly and shrugged.

"I haven't seen everyone this tired since-" he began.

The sound that interrupted Reid's thought alerted everyone's attention and replaced drowsiness with concern.

"Garcia," Morgan asked, alarmed at seeing her at work so early. "What's wrong?"

They waited as Penelope, who had arrived at the top of the stairs, looked down with wide eyes at the folder in her hands, and then to each of their faces.

Then her eyes settled on Hotchner's face, her mouth opening and closing slightly.

"He's back," she murmured faintly.

There was silence in the BAU at her announcement as everyone's expression turned to grimaces of horror. Clarke was the only exception as she looked around at her worried colleagues' faces uncertainly.

"When did this happen?" Hotch asked in a low voice.

"Around one o'clock this morning," Garcia's canary yellow nails dug into the folder before she handed it off to Hotch. "Officer Alexander Boyd, D.C. cop just getting off the night shift. One shot to the head, credentials stolen."

"One casualty?" Hotch asked and Garcia nodded. "From long distance?"

"Yes sir," she confirmed with another nod.

Garcia could see the dilemma in Hotch's face as he looked down at the file and then he slowly turned to look at everyone's faces.

He pursed his lips and then looked up at Garcia once again.

"Right now, I need everyone to go home and get rest. We're all exhausted and nothing will be accomplished in this state."

He nodded his thanks to Garcia and she stepped out of the way as he passed her. Rossi followed him up the steps and headed toward his office, his expression distant.

"We leave at noon, so don't be late," Hotch said, now all business as he neared his office and held it open for Rossi.

They nodded their understanding and watched as Hotch shut the door of his office with a bit of unnecessary force.

Morgan bent over, placing his hands on his desk, and hung his head, letting out an angry growl. Clarke did not overlook his fingers clenched in a tight fist.

Reid's mouth was slightly agape, his eyes worried.

"What's going on?" Clarke asked, a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

They both looked over at her, their expressions not changing. Without answering, Morgan broke their eye contact and picked up his bag. Clarke and Reid watched as he swung it over his shoulder and left without so much as a goodbye.

As the door shut behind him, Clarke glanced back at Reid impatiently.

"Well? What am I missing?" she asked.

Reid's mouth twitched down in a frown.

"Maybe it's best to discuss this after we get some sleep," he advised, standing.

Clarke nodded and sighed.

She felt the familiar presence of the dark secret the team had kept hidden from her. She knew eventually it would resurface, but now that it had, she wished she could keep the ignorance.

Because whatever it was they were hiding, it had briefly shown itself, and along with it surfaced a foreign rage in every agent's demeanor.

Her intuition whispered in her ear that not only did the secret have to do with her and the agent she had been sent to replace, but that it had also been hidden for a very good reason.

* * *

><p>Rossi's flinch was a heavy blink when Hotch slammed the door shut and strode to his desk, opening the file to scan the images of Officer Boyd's crime scene.<p>

"What are you thinking, Aaron?" Rossi approached him, tapping his knuckles lightly on the desktop.

"Erin," he answered sincerely, not taking his eyes off the pictures. "She's not going to want us to have this one. We have too much personal investment."

The two FBI agents glanced at each other, sharing a painful memory in the brief seconds of eye contact.

* * *

><p><em>The thickness of the door is probably what saved his life. It is also what crushed his ribs and made him feel like he was inhaling fire instead of precious air.<em>

_He wasn't sure how long he had been in this position, but couldn't recall having lost consciousness, so he didn't think it had been too long. He couldn't see much of anything except the heavy wood of the door lying on top of him. Everything around him seemed muffled and distant, like he was secluded from the rest of the world. The only thing around him that felt real was the big heavy door squashing him and the image of Emily Prentiss slamming the door in his face._

_Soon that vision would be the only reality he would know._

"_On three: one, two, three!"_

_The sharp jolt of pain in his ears made itself known and his lungs inflated terribly as the door was lifted off him, and the swimming images of Derek Morgan and David Rossi appeared before him, both with alarmed expressions._

"—_hear me?"_

_Hotch blinked, willing himself to pay attention to what was happening now, rather than the ingrained picture of Prentiss saving his life._

_It looked as if he had been blasted off his feet and through the wall of the hotel room across the UnSub's room. Through the large hole in the wall he had helped to create he could make out Rossi picking through the remains of rooms 331, 333, and 335._

_Morgan remained at his side, agitation and concern warring on his face._

"_I'm all right," he said, but it sounded distinctly lacking in authority to his smarting ears. "Get Prentiss—"_

"_Rossi's on it," Morgan nodded, checking him over. "And medics are on the way. I gotta dig Reid out; you okay?"_

_He couldn't get Emily out of his mind, and he was wholly fearful of what Rossi would turn up of her. But Morgan was watching him anxiously, obviously torn over his alliances to his injured boss and other fallen colleague in unknown condition._

"_I'm okay, get Reid," he gave his permission but made little effort to get up and follow. Moving his head made his mind feel foggy and his body heavy; he was certain he had hit his head pretty hard on landing._

_Morgan didn't need telling twice, however; he picked his way through the rubble quickly but carefully on his way to the area next to Rossi. Hotch watched, his ears ringing and a terrible ache in his heart._

* * *

><p>Rossi shrugged the thoughts away, laying both his hands flat on the desk.<p>

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Hotch didn't say anything else; he merely turned the page to read the report. Rossi leaned over to cast a shadow on the pages.

"You really think it's him?"

Hotch looked up at him with stern eyes.

"Long distance headshot, targeting his victims after work, stealing their credentials…it all reads the same," Hotch spread out the file's contents on the desk for Rossi to skim. "It has to be him."

"Because the evidence supports it or because we want it to be him?" Rossi pointed to the back of Alexander Boyd's skull, which was a mess of blood and gore. "This one doesn't seem to care if the victim's facing his death or not."

"It's too much of a coincidence."

The Unit Chief turned his thoughts inward once again as he studied the crime scene through the photos below him.

"A patrol officer doesn't rank too high," Rossi broke the silence offhandedly, as if determined to poke holes in Hotch's reasoning in as aloof a manner as possible.

"An LDSK—"

"Technically he's not a serial killer. Yet," Rossi amended at the mutinous look. "But you have to admit that four months is quite a cooling off period."

"He might have needed time to train," Hotch replied in a low voice.

"Himself?"

Hotch looked him straight in the eye, his poker face present.

"A new protégé."

Rossi gave a heavy sigh and scrubbed at his stubbled face.

"Another kid."

It wasn't a question and Hotch didn't respond as he slowly but methodically piled the papers back in order and into the folder.

"Go home and get some rest, Dave," he rose and clapped the elder agent on the shoulder briefly. "You're going to need it."

"You know, it's funny;" Rossi threw the offhanded remark over his shoulder as he headed for the exit. "It seems the more I hear that phrase the less I'm actually able to sleep."

* * *

><p>Derek Morgan would be the first to admit that perhaps he wasn't the safest driver. He had a tendency to roll stop signs and would balk at the idea of getting a ticket for speeding five miles per hour over the designated limit; he even derived some reckless amusement at consistently speeding up when a light turned yellow to the point the stop light was an orange blur when he passed under it.<p>

Reid complained about it when prodded. Clarke ribbed him on it. Hotch remained tight-lipped about it. Rossi downright hated it, but since he never offered to drive instead his irritability was easy to overlook.

Prentiss had been the only one unbothered by it. Most likely because she was much the same way.

He was certain even Emily would have spoken up over his driving skills as he sped and made dangerous turns on his way home.

Morgan might have physically been in the car, but his mind was far, far away, back to that fateful day, to the dusty smoke, primal fear, and digging through rubble. He still had a sizable scar on his hand as a souvenir. As if he needed it; with the early morning murder, the case was open for his vengeance once again.

_Emily's _vengeance, he reminded himself. _He_, after all, had escaped with nothing more than an elevated, inch-long line of lightened flesh right by his thumb. The small scar stood out to him every time he took aim with his weapon, a consummate reminder of what he had lost that day. What _Emily _had lost.

Needless to say, he made it home in record time.

Clooney, as expected, was curled up by the couch when he entered and took several seconds to find his feet to greet his master.

"Don't bother getting up," Morgan replied, knowing what he said wouldn't matter. Hip dysplasia or not, Clooney loved three things: the couch, his owner, and anything relating to bacon. It saddened Morgan to know he would never surpass the golden retriever's love of pork products.

"Didja miss me, big guy?" some of the worry lines seemed to melt away as he scratched behind the dog's ears, making his tail whip around enthusiastically. "I wish I didn't have to go so often."

Clooney led the way back over to the couch and took pained steps to settle down once again. Morgan frowned sympathetically as he himself flopped onto the couch before continuing to pet the animal.

"After I catch this guy, Clooney, I swear we'll take a break. We'll go out to the beach, just the two of us."

Clooney's tail thumped a merry beat against the couch and Morgan settled deep into the pillows, closing his eyes.

* * *

><p><em>Trying to discern the rooms apart was nearly impossible; all walls and ceiling had been blown apart, allowing the fading light of day to shine meekly through the clouds of dust and smoke.<em>

_He quickly realized, looking at the endless debris surrounding him, that when he told Hotch he would find Reid, he had been optimistic._

_Finding anything in this mess would be difficult. Finding Spencer Reid alive seemed downright impossible._

_Wasting no time, Morgan ran to the closest human-sized lump of rubble and dug both hands as deep as he could into the mess. He could hear distant sirens in the background as he frantically pushed heavy stone and dusty, dirty pillows out of the way to search underneath._

_Finding nothing human-like in the pile, he jumped to the next one. Rossi's scavenging seemed to be equally unproductive, as Morgan could hear his grunts of exertion and foul cursing from across the battle zone._

"_Come on, Reid, you gotta help me out here," he muttered, swearing furiously as a piece of glass cut his hand. He ignored the pain as he dug back in, but froze just as quickly when he uncovered a charred and clearly broken arm._

"_Oh God__," he whispered, working at inestimable speed to uncover the rest of the body._

_He felt completely sick when he realized there was no body to find; the arm was the only human part in the entire pile._

"_No way in hell," Morgan's hands were shaking as he worked at a nearby mound to unearth the body's remaining pieces. He knew immediately this pile, however, was different than the last: something dark, wet, and sticky now clung to his hands._

_He knew he had found the right pile, and it scared him to death._

"_Don't be him, don't be him," was the agent's mantra as he ignored the blood and entrails, searching indiscriminately for a discernable piece of body that would tell him this wasn't what remained of his friend. "God, please, don't be him…"_

_Derek Morgan sighed with relief but turned away in disgust when he found the head of a stranger, the UnSub._

"_Reid!" he left the parts of the perpetrator far behind to search in an entirely different direction. "Reid, give me something to work with here—"_

_The ever-recognizable revolver, covered with ash, somehow, miraculously, caught his eye a few yards away. He was so used to seeing it settled on Reid's ridiculously thin waist that finding it on the ground, cold and alone, felt downright wrong. It sent an icy chill racing down his spine. _

"_Hold on, Reid, I'm right here," Morgan's hands, caked with foreign and familiar blood, did not hesitate to reach into the very large mound closest to the weapon. "Let me hear ya, kid, tell me where you are."_

_Where he had been brutally swift before at overturning the debris, he felt the need to be gentle at moving every stone and brick with this newest mound. He efficiently and systematically threw the largest pieces within arm's reach to his sides, fearful that each was hiding a piece of his good friend._

_A thrill raced through him when he overturned a large rock and discovered a dirty Converse._

"_I gotcha, Reid, I gotcha," Morgan shifted the wreckage around the shoe but frowned at not finding an accompanying foot or leg. "Dammit!"_

_He swiped at the perspiration on his brow before crawling further along the monstrous pile to continue his deliberately delicate pace._

_A lump caught in his throat, making him momentarily speechless, when he found tufts of gray-dusted, blood-coated, short, brown hair._

* * *

><p>Morgan's eyes flew open, chasing away the vision of a charred arm without an owner and the ghosts of his maimed colleague as the alarm on his cell phone alerted him of the eleven o'clock hour. He blinked in rapid succession, trying to calm his racing heart, fearful of the echoes of the painful memory.<p>

_Don't be him. Don't be him. God, please, don't be him._

Clooney remained at his side, unfazed.

* * *

><p><strong>akacinno's AN**: Updates every Monday! Don't worry, things will become clearer! ; ) Put _Infamy _on your Alerts if you're enjoying it!

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Such a fun chapter to write. More flashbacks and more crimes to solve next Monday, so stay tuned! Hope you're enjoying the ride so far!


	3. Chapter Two

**akacinno's A/N**: Thank you for the reviews guys! We appreciate it. : ) Enjoy chapter two!

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Hurray for more flashbacks! And a bit more insight into the lives of our favorite team.

_Italics _are, like last time, flashbacky.

Chapter Two

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><p>Megan Clarke would be the first to admit that perhaps she wasn't particularly athletically advantaged. While her arms were strong and her hands steady, she was of a relatively average build and height and her legs were notoriously short. So while she was good with a gun, her body just wasn't made for sprinting.<p>

"No no no no no!"

Of course, that didn't mean she didn't know how to run.

Clarke practically flew down the stairs, bag swinging wildly behind her. Reid galloped along in her wake, messenger bag banging on his hip heavily.

"No! NO!" Clarke called out in vain; the subway train made its way down the dark tunnel, wind blowing cruelly and red lights flashing as a final taunt before it disappeared.

Clarke hunched over, hands on her knees, riding out the stitch that was sending spasms of pain throughout her abdomen. Reid was at her side a moment later, likewise attempting to catch his breath.

She looked over at his sweaty face and had to give a shaky laugh.

"What's…so funny?" Reid panted out, hair looking even more out of sorts than usual.

"For having long legs," Clarke continued to giggle even as she winced, "you really are a lousy runner."

"Well, it's not like you," he coughed, "are in much better shape."

"But I've got short stubby legs," she massaged the stitch away and held her foot out in front of her as proof.

"Ah, but I have no muscle mass."

They glanced at each other and Clarke's attempt at suppressing a grin manifested into a snort of laughter. Reid watched her with a bemused expression.

"You do realize we have to wait a half hour for the next train now, don't you?" he asked her with a half smile.

"I do," she replied a little breathlessly as she led the way to the closest bench. "This has all the makings to be one of _those _days_,_ you know?"

"One of 'those days'…?" Reid trailed off the question, a curious look in his eyes.

"You ever get that feeling? That nothing's going to go the way we want it to?"

"Frequently," Reid said, not breaking stride. "Although I often chalk it up to paranoia."

"You calling me paranoid?" she picked the cleanest part of the bench to sit on and flopped down unceremoniously.

"I think sleep-deprived would be a more accurate description for yourself," Reid sat down next to her and both eyed the dark subway tunnel wistfully.

"So you're calling yourself paranoid."

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a shadow of a smile.

* * *

><p><em>Derek Morgan's quaking hands clumsily worked around his head. His movements were fast and efficient if a little shaky; he quickly had Reid's bludgeoned head and torso uncovered, and he was at least pleased to see the Kevlar vest had protected his back rather well.<em>

"_Talk to me Reid," Morgan rose to his feet and placed a foot on either side of Reid's body to better dig him out, ignoring the scratches and scrapes his legs felt when found knee-deep in the rubble. "You always have something to say; this is the only time I'm giving you free reign in a conversation."_

_He was able to work even faster when standing; he was bleeding and sweating but soon had enough of Reid to gently take hold of his shoulders and shift him to his side._

_The younger agent's face was a mess of blood and grime, but he was breathing with a slight wheeze that made Morgan doubt he had ever seen his friend looking better._

"_C'mon, kid, time to wake up," he wiped his cheek lightly, minding the gashes marring his face to evaluate the ghostly skin he found under the filth._

_Morgan grinned in success when Reid's eyes blinked open, looking as if he'd rather keep them shut. The older agent wondered vaguely when he had last been able to smile, because surely that previous time should not have warranted such a response when compared to this._

"_Easy does it, Reid. Tell me where it hurts."_

_Reid didn't attempt to move; his eyes were bright in contrast to his dirtied face as he blinked a few more times and swallowed with a wince._

"_Morgan?"_

"_Yeah, kid, it's me. Medics are on the way. Where does it hurt?"_

_His eyes glanced around momentarily, as if searching out an answer. Morgan stooped lower to keep his concentration._

"_Everywhere?"_

"_I'm going to need specifics here, Reid."_

_Reid closed his eyes, pain etching his features, before he swallowed again and looked back up at him._

"_My head, mostly," he said hoarsely, trying to look away from Morgan's critical gaze but the older agent followed with him, earnest in his attempts to garner information. "But I can't…my hand's stuck."_

"_Which one?"_

"_The left."_

"_Okay, that's okay, just take it easy," Morgan rose to stand above him again. "I'll get you outta here, don't worry."_

_Morgan set back to work, the only sounds around him included the ever-approaching sirens of the ambulances, Rossi's nearby efforts, and Reid's wheezy breathing._

"_What happened?" Reid asked hollowly._

"_UnSub blew himself up," Morgan answered, having exposed the evidence. "There's not much left of him."_

"_How're the others?"_

"_Worry about yourself for now, Reid," he evaded, brushing his filthy hands on his pants before moving on to the last part of Reid still covered up. He grimaced when he followed the left arm to find a large chunk of solid cement concealing his hand. "So far you're the worst off."_

"_But who found the Un…." Reid's sentence was cut short and his breathing hitched as the mini-boulder was moved off his hand._

_Morgan tried to hide the noise of disgust when he found his friend's mutilated hand. All of the fingers looked broken and the wrist might have been as well. Not a single patch of skin was identifiable through the welts, bruises, blood, and soot._

"_A warning would have been nice," Reid finally breathed after a minute of silence, his voice higher than normal._

"_Sorry," Morgan maneuvered around to sit at Reid's side once again._

"_I'll be okay," Reid looked relieved that Morgan hadn't tried to move him. "Go help the others."_

"_I told you you're the worst one right now," Morgan said, keeping his eyes on Rossi and Hotch, the latter having just joined the hunt as they worked in the same area with resolute faces. "Let me at least stay with you until the medics get here, okay?"_

_Morgan's goal of nonchalance towards the situation sounded relatively pathetic to himself; he was itching to assist in locating the absent female agent, but seeing his friend covered in blood and dirt, looking even worse off than he had after contracting Anthrax…Morgan couldn't just leave him, alone and helpless._

_Reid blinked up at him owlishly._

"_Thank you."_

_Morgan automatically took it as a bad sign that he didn't put up a fight or, more likely, debate on another plane of intelligence that Morgan would have had difficulty opposing or fully comprehending. And he certainly didn't approve of the nearly white smudge of skin exposed on his cheek. _

"_Can you move?"_

_The young agent frowned but otherwise remained still._

"_I'm missing a shoe."_

_Morgan gave him another genuine beam; the humor livened Reid up, made the little visible skin on his face look healthier._

"_How's everyone else?" Reid spoke up again, most likely to block out the noisy sirens accompanying the approaching ambulances. His eyes were surveying his superiors without reserve, satisfied with Rossi's grim yet physically acceptable appearance and less than thrilled with Hotch, broken both in looks and the way he carried himself around the disaster site._

_He blinked around in confusion when he realized who wasn't present._

"_Where's Emily?"_

* * *

><p>"It's Thursday."<p>

Clarke looked over at Reid, her grin dropping in an instant.

"You always get off a stop earlier on Thursday," Reid kept his gaze on her, studying her intently. "Where do you go?"

Clarke looked away uncomfortably, shifting in her seat to find a better position.

"Same place I go every Thursday."

He stared at her and a beam surfaced in her face.

"The gym, Spencer. We can't all have your natural skin-and-bone physique."

"Hey, I work hard at this," he flexed his long fingers, returning her smile.

He didn't stop trying to decipher the secret buried in her blue eyes, even an hour later when she exited the subway car one stop and two and a half minutes earlier than every other day of the week.

* * *

><p>David Rossi would be the first to admit that perhaps he wasn't the most sentimental individual. Certainly his three ex-wives could provide enough evidence. But in his line of work, forming intimate connections with others just didn't pay off in the long run. It was one thing getting to know your teammates; it was quite another to have them become a surrogate family.<p>

David Rossi would also be the first to admit that he wasn't fond of following unreasonable rules, especially those made by himself. The job used to be a rather solitary affair, but since his return, he couldn't help but make these relationships within the team.

"So you're enjoying California then?"

"The weather's perfect _all the time_. You'd hate it."

He cracked a smile and shifted the phone from his left to his right hand.

"What can I say? I'm just a cold climate kind of guy."

"Yeah, I remember. I think you were the only one who enjoyed that case in North Dakota when it snowed three days straight."

"No, I think even I agreed that was miserable. Although I can't say enough how much I enjoyed having an excuse to ride a snow mobile."

He listened to her laughter over his cell phone and sighed nostalgically.

"So how's life at the BAU? Have any interesting cases?"

"We just got off of one in Indiana and we're headed to D.C. this afternoon."

"Ah, Chief Paige. Should be a fun time."

The image of Alexander Boyd's body with the back of his head blown off flashed through his mind. It was quickly replaced with that of finding Emily Prentiss at death's door mere months ago that felt like a different lifetime.

* * *

><p>"<em>Emily?"<em>

_David Rossi had seen many gruesome victims in his time working at the FBI, but few were colleagues. And only one was currently right below him, lying in the remains of a collapsed hotel room, looking closer to death than life. Hotch hovered at his side, looking shaken._

"_Is she even breathing?"_

_Rossi didn't like to see the Unit Chief upset, but he hated hearing the pained gasps of air he took to inflate his lungs with broken ribs._

"_Get the medics, Aaron," Rossi nodded toward the hallway, determined to stay at the injured agent's side after taking as long as it had to find her. "I'll take care of her."_

"_Dave—"_

"_She's breathing," Rossi reassured, but wasn't particularly confident in how long that statement would remain true. "But she needs help. Clear the area so the medics can get to her and Reid."_

_Hotch nodded and scrambled through the debris, struggling to shift heavy pieces of concrete to make a path. Rossi watched him meander like a drunken man before returning to the beaten Prentiss, sorrow in his eyes._

_Her only saving grace had been the Kevlar vest; while plenty of shrapnel had embedded into her arms and legs, her protected chest at least looked unharmed. Aside from the large bed spring skewering her right shoulder, her gravest injuries looked to be the burns covering all exposed skin, including her face._

_But she was breathing, even if it was shallow and erratic, and for that Rossi would be forever grateful. He hadn't needed to lie to Aaron._

"_Sir," an EMT toting a portable defibrillator approached the pair of agents, his partner following right behind. "We're going to need you to step aside."_

_Rossi looked between the two EMTs, wondering how someone so young could possibly be qualified to help Prentiss when she was in such a state. But he stood and moved out of their way so they could work, their words coming rapidly and with such a practice that David mentally scolded himself for doubting their capabilities._

_The EMT that had first spoken to him called over a third and together they maneuvered Prentiss onto a stretcher without waking her. As they carried her past him, he found the need to speak up._

"_I'm riding with her," he said in a way that brooked no argument, but again he shouldn't have worried. Both of the EMTs carrying the stretcher nodded at him as they continued to pick carefully through the wreckage and into the mostly-cleared hallway._

_Rossi followed, feeling uncharacteristically insecure at his lack of control in the proceedings._

* * *

><p>"Sir? Are you still there?"<p>

"Yeah, sorry. It should be fun."

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what time it is up there, but I've got to head into work. It was great hearing from you though."

"Yeah, I suppose it's that time for me as well," Rossi said, checking his watch. "I just wanted to know how things were going."

"I appreciate that. Although I have to say, no one around here has game like you do, sir."

"No one around here does either," he laughed along with her.

"I guess I'll talk to you later then. And good luck on your case."

"Thanks. You take care, Ashley."

"You too. Bye."

Rossi flipped his phone shut, watching the screen flash the time before it went dark.

* * *

><p><em><em>FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, Quantico, Virginia<em>  
><em>_April 23rd_

Hotch arrived at the BAU around ten, unable to get much sleep. He set his briefcase in his chair in his office and momentarily paused. He let out a defeated sigh, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Picking up his coffee cup, he left his office and headed toward Garcia's tech lab.

He knocked once and heard her chipper admission.

"Hola, Señor Hotchner," Garcia greeted, turning slightly to see her boss. Her bright fuchsia ensemble today did not faze Hotch as he neared her desk.

"What have you found?" he asked, her cheerful demeanor deflecting off his cold tone.

"Several things, sir," she said, unperturbed. "One glaringly obvious and unfortunate, if you would direct your attention to the screen."

She pulled up a series of gruesome crime scene photos with two clicks of her mouse.

"That's not Boyd…" Hotch's brows furrowed in concentration, taking in the new details.

"That would be because it is Robert Wheeler," she confirmed, her eyes avoiding the bloody images taking space on her desktop. "Found at nine o'clock this morning with a bullet in his right temple.

"This UnSub is identical to our previous killer in DC, except for one sneaky difference. Carl Faison always went for the headshots, right between the eyes; however, this new guy will take _any_ headshot, even from the back."

"What do we have on the victims?"

"With the previous case, the victims were a colonel in the military, sheriff, US Marshal, and judge. This time around we have Boyd the Cop and Wheeler the Detective."

Hotch closed his eyes while Garcia relayed the information. When she finished with the victims, he opened them.

"The credentials were stolen off the bodies as well?" he asked.

Garcia nodded solemnly.

"Yes sir."

"Okay," he said with a heavy sigh and Penelope offered a sympathetic smile. "Do we have anything on their backgrounds?"

Garcia gave him a sly smile.

"I am nothing if not thorough," she bragged and pulled up a window on her computer. "Alexander Boyd: married with three children. Joined law enforcement at age twenty two-"

"What about his criminal record?" Hotch interrupted.

"Nothing," she said, peering up once again at him. "He's clean."

"That's of what's been reported," he disagreed. "The judge had a drug problem, but was never charged with it."

"Well I can keep rooting around, but so far I have zilch on Boyd. Our detective, on the other hand, had trespassing and vandalism charges when he was sixteen, had it expunged two years later, and nothing since. Unmarried, no kids, but he does leave behind a pretty cute basset hound."

Hotch shook his head, undeterred.

"Until we can prove otherwise, we'll say that the only thing that's changed is the MO. Keep digging, Garcia."

"Yes my liege," she said, quick to pull the brutal images off her screen.

"And I don't think I have to tell you this, but this is our first priority. No new cases until we get this guy."

"Of course, sir," Garcia looked over at him seriously. "No rest or explicit innuendos until we d—"

Her expression froze and her focus shifted to something over his shoulder, causing Hotch to turn. Erin Strauss stood in the doorway, expression neutral.

"Good morning, Aaron."

"Erin," Hotch inclined his head, and Garcia turned back to face her computer, cracking a secret smile at the odd exchange.

"Would you mind stepping into my office for a moment?"

"Not at all."

Strauss led the way out of the room and Hotch faintly heard Garcia mutter a drawn out '_Awkward'_ as he followed.

"How was Indiana?" she asked lightly as they travelled the short trip.

"Not without its difficulties," he answered, "but we found her in the end."

"And how is Agent Clarke working out?"

"She's a good asset," he said, and as they approached her office, he bypassed her to hold the door open, "and a strong addition to the team."

"So she's adjusting well? Thank you," she added as she stepped inside.

"She's still learning," he said, closing the door behind him. "But she's picking up on the team dynamics quickly. She gets along well with everyone."

"I see she hasn't had to fill out any reports yet."

Hotch lingered by the door momentarily before entering the office further.

"The opportunity has yet to present itself."

"A month in and no legitimate field work, Aaron?"

"She has field work experience."

"With your team?"

They stood off momentarily, Hotch by her laden bookshelf and Strauss by her desk.

"I'll make it a priority."

"See to it," was her final comment on the matter. "Come, take a seat."

He sat in the proffered chair as she took her time to find her own seat, clasping her hands on the desktop.

"Where's your head, Aaron?"

"It's in this case," Hotch said, fully expecting the question. "DC's about to have a serial killer; they need our help in this."

"They asked for you," she nodded her head, leaning forward as if the physical act of getting closer to him would create a breakthrough. "And your team has the best insight on this guy. He's picking off law enforcement and there's going to be a lot of trigger happy cops after him. I need your level head in this one."

"Rest assured you have it. _All _of ours."

"Don't make me regret my decision to allow you on this case, then," she placed her hands palm up on the desk in an act of compliance. "And please keep a keen eye on Agent Morgan; it's hard to forget his, ah, _fervor _from last time."

"You have my word," Hotch kept his gaze stern as he rose from his seat.

"Keep me updated," she called out as he left, causing him to miss the brief but sad frown that washed over her face.

* * *

><p><strong>akacinno's AN**: Things will become clearer very, very soon! Don't fret. ; )

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Hark? Did we just do a cameo? Hmm...the game's afoot! Next Monday, that is. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter Three

**akacinno's A/N**: A longer chapter, but this is where things will get easier to understand folks. Thanks for hanging in here!

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Wow, is it Monday again already? Welcome! Welcome! I hope you are ready for some background info!

Chapter Three

* * *

><p>Morgan was about four steps in front of Reid and Clarke as they strode to the cars they'd be driving to DC. He was marching quickly, anger in his posture, which was visible to Clarke even from behind.<p>

"Level with me, Spencer," Clarke muttered, low enough that Derek could not hear. "On a scale of one to ten—how stressed is everyone about this case?"

"Not including Garcia…?" Reid trailed off, and Clarke looked ahead.

Garcia had two enormous pink and purple suitcases at the trunk of one of the SUV's. She struggled to pick up the lighter of the two and pushed with her back in attempts to shove the piece of luggage into the vehicle.

"Oh mother of pearl," she breathed, thrusting back against the bag. "Morgan, lend me a strong, capable hand."

Morgan, hardly breaking his pace, picked up the suitcase in one hand and hoisted it into the trunk, immediately followed by the other. He reached up for the handle and Penelope had to jump backwards so as to not be squashed by the door he slammed down with unneeded force.

"An eleven," Reid answered with a sigh and Clarke gave him a half-hearted smile.

"Reid, you and Rossi are with me," Hotch said, appearing behind them and Reid's eyes widened in surprise. Giving Clarke a look, he retreated after Hotch. Clarke, finding Garcia had already called shotgun, took the backseat.

Hotch appeared at Morgan's window just as Clarke shut her door. He rolled the window down and Hotchner handed him a file.

"You two have the task of informing Agent Clarke about the previous case," he said grimly. "We'll discuss the new one when we get there."

"Got it," Morgan spoke tightly and turned the key, the engine coming to life. "See you there."

"Drive safely," Hotch replied, equally as stiff and made his way back to the car.

"You aren't asleep, are you Megan?" Garcia asked, as she opened the folder Hotch had given them.

"No," Clarke retorted, her face red. "I swear, I fall asleep on the plane once and I will never hear the end of it."

"I don't think it's the falling asleep part that everyone's teasing you about," Garcia inserted slyly as Clarke's face burned an even darker shade of scarlet.

"This isn't a long drive," Morgan said seriously, pulling on to the highway. "Start the briefing."

Clarke saw Penelope's face fall and stared at Morgan's profile, knowing he was upset. She looked down at the folder in her lap and opened it. Clarke heard her let out a loaded sigh.

"This was some case," she said heavily. "Are you ready, Megan?"

Clarke nodded. She had been wondering about this case since her first day at the BAU. Now that it was finally here, she felt it a bit unnerving at having it all laid out in front of her.

"Starting from the beginning then," Garcia commenced and Clarke saw Morgan's hand tighten on the steering wheel. "November 30th we received the case from DC. Two victims shot from long distance, directly between the eyes."

She grimaced as she pulled out two photos and handed them back for Clarke's evaluation.

In one picture lay a man in a sheriff's uniform. There was a hole, the size a bit smaller than a dime, in his forehead, blood trickling down into his left unblinking eye. In the other image, a woman was on her side, her arm bent unnaturally behind her body. She too had the same wound in her head, blood splattered on her glasses.

"The man was a sheriff and the woman was a judge," Garcia explained as Morgan glanced up into the mirror, gauging Clarke's reaction. "They were both killed in parking lots as they were leaving work."

"I'm guessing there was no evidence?" Clarke murmured, giving the photos one last once-over before handing them back over to Garcia.

"Not one fingerprint," she said sadly. "Our UnSub hid himself well. Although there was no sign on the bodies of further torment to the victims, their credentials were stolen from them."

"Trophies," Clarke nodded her understanding and Garcia continued down the sheet.

"Upon sifting through their backgrounds," she informed. "I found no connection between the two victims other than the fact that they served as authority figures in their respective fields of work. And as I unearthed that small similarity, my beautiful team came up fruitful while they interviewed the families of the victims. They both had an insatiable hunger for their drug of choice: crack cocaine."

"Corrupt authority figures," Clarke said raising her eyebrows.

"_Dirty_ authority figures," Morgan corrected, anger in his voice as his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel again. Clarke had heard the term once before. Reid had said it reflexively while working on their last case, saying that a victim had a 'dirty record'. Its result had everyone avoiding eye contact and added a layer of tension to the conversation.

Garcia intercepted the uncomfortable silence that would have followed Morgan's resentment quickly.

"As your well-trained-for-profiling mind has probably already surmised," she said lightly to Clarke, contrasting Morgan's bitterness. "This UnSub had a background in military or law enforcement."

"Let me guess," Clarke tried, testing her knowledge. "The UnSub would have to be local, in order to get around the city to study his victims when they were most alone and vulnerable without being detected, cross-referenced those with military or law enforcement careers…and narrowed it by age, because only someone with time and experience in their field could have shot with such precision."

Garcia nodded.

"Very impressive. And very right, for the most part. I also cross-referenced that list with those involved in drug abuse."

"Ahh," Clarke acted wounded. "So close, but forgot the obvious. That's why you're the expert."

"Please," Morgan snapped. "Can we stay focused?"

Clarke's face reddened, feeling childish, but Garcia saved her from embarrassment.

"Relax, sweetness," she said casually. "We have time. Just drive."

He wasn't too thrilled being talked down, but he did not comment further.

"Where were we?" Garcia exhaled. "Oh, right. After I sent the finalized list over, they split up and interviewed sixteen suspects."

Clarke raised her eyebrows.

"That's a lot."

"We had a lot of help from the DC cops," Morgan interjected, his temper seemingly tempered for now. "They were one of the most helpful groups of men and women we've ever worked with. You'll see when we get there, although I'm sure they won't be pleased with why we're there."

"They took about ten suspects between their men," Garcia continued. "And our team split, sharing the remaining suspects. Upon interviewing though, each suspect was cleared. And on top of that disappointing conclusion, another man was killed. A colonel in the military."

"Jeez…," Clarke murmured, taking the new photo Penelope handed back. A man, obvious in his authority, was laying unmoving next to his shiny black BMW. He was slightly gray in his hair, sporting his camouflage uniform, surprise in his expression, and a dark bullet hole in between his large eyes.

Clarke looked to Garcia.

"He was a crack addict?"

Garcia shook her head, to Clarke's surprise.

"A druggie, yes, but not cocaine. His poison was meth."

"We didn't have much to go on," Morgan said as Clarke handed back the photo. "LDSKs are so rare that we only had the standard profile. They are always male, they either revisit the crime scene or take something from the victims, which our guy did."

"And they always contact the media," Garcia said and grimaced.

Clarke took the slight pause and looked between Garcia and Morgan's profiles.

"He didn't?"

"No," Morgan answered. "Our profile was wrong on a lot of things."

"We got extremely lucky though," Garcia said. "We opened up an anonymous tip hotline the same day the third victim was killed. Of course, you always got the paranoid housewife that thought their all-too-laid-back neighbor who liked to borrow their hedge clippers and not return them was the killer," she said matter-of-factly, which made the corners of Clarke's lips twitch upward. "However, we did receive a call from a man who thought he used to know the UnSub. The caller said that this guy, Carl Faison, was in his SWAT division and one of the best snipers that there ever was. And the youngest. He didn't appear in my initial search because of he was exceptionally younger than I expected, 25, and also because he got the Dishonorable Discharge by his SWAT leader Dante Sweathers. Sweathers was, and here's the kicker, a major drug addict."

"Vengeance," Morgan nodded, passing a slow-moving Volkswagen.

"So he killed any person of authority who reminded him of his SWAT leader," Clarke summarized. "Dirty authority figures."

Morgan's eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror on hearing that word.

"I did some research on Carl Faison," Garcia pushed forward. "He didn't stand a chance. Father left his abusive mother and of course she didn't even notice the classic signs of a serial killer in the making, and Faison had them all. He wet the bed, lit his shed in the backyard on fire, and killed his neighbor's dog."

Morgan hissed through his teeth and shook his head sadly.

"I got his address," Garcia said, frowning. "And his mother's address. The DC cops went to question her; we took his apartment."

The conversation suddenly took on a dark tone; the tension in Morgan's jaw could have broken a normal man's molars and Garcia's chin wrinkled with an effort to keep her composure.

"When the cops got to her home…," her voice wavered and Morgan glanced at her.

Looking back at the road, he sighed.

"They found her corpse, mutilated in the bathroom tub," he answered for her and Clarke shivered. "She had been dead for months and no one knew."

A slight pause followed that statement and Garcia pulled herself together.

"He wasn't at the apartment either, but they did find something else that was rather disturbing. Newspaper clippings and photos covered up a wall by his desk. Photos of his victims with large red X's crossing them off…."

"Newspaper articles on them, giving him information on where they worked and helped him plan where he could find them," Morgan said. "There was a sticky note on his desk on top of a million photos, all of the same guy. It wasn't someone we had seen before and we knew immediately that it was the next victim."

He took a steadying breath and Garcia put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing his back softly.

"Prentiss," he said and deliberately turned his head to see if he could get into the left lane. "She's from DC. She knew the place well. As soon as she saw the photos she recognized the building the potential victim was exiting: a law firm. She picked up the sticky note and it said the name of a hotel. We hurried to the law firm and saw that the photos had been taken from the hotel across the street."

Clarke couldn't believe how easily they had found the UnSub after they visited his apartment.

"We went up to the top floor," Morgan's voice darkened as he pulled off the highway. "Me, Rossi, Reid, Hotch, and Prentiss. We didn't know which room he'd be in, so we split up."

He paused, perhaps wanting Garcia to take over, but she couldn't tell this part of the story. It was clear in the way her hand was pressed over her mouth, staring determinedly out the window.

"Prentiss got to the right room," Morgan continued, but his voice hardened. "Faison was inside, facing the window with his gun set up on the stand, pointing to the firm and everything. When she told him to put his hands up and turn around, he obliged. Dynamite was strapped to his body."

Clarke's wide eyes turned to Garcia. She saw her reflection in the window and sadly realized tears falling down her cheeks steadily. She shook her head and turned back to Morgan.

"Hotch told me he could hear her talking to someone. He left the room he was searching and quickly moved to her room, when she slammed the door in his face."

There was an empty silence as Morgan paused to turn left.

"It was a mess. I had to dig Reid out of the debris."

Clarke's breath caught in her throat.

"He was in the room next to the explosion—"

"Wait," Clarke said, shocked. "The UnSub…died?"

Morgan glanced at her in his rearview mirror.

"He didn't survive that, if that's what you're asking. How could he?"

"But…" she was confused. "Garcia, you said he was back?"

Garcia looked at Morgan briefly.

"Let him finish," she said in a thick voice and Clarke too turned to Morgan.

"Yes, he died. Hotch had a few cracked ribs where the door from the room crushed him. Reid's left hand and wrist were both completely shattered. Prentiss…she, well…she barely survived."

"So, she's alive," Clarke breathed, relieved.

"She's still recovering," he answered. "She was practically dead when the medics arrived. They had to restart her heart twice on the way to the hospital. Had to give her over half the blood she lost in her body. Her legs were maimed…she's still in a wheelchair and the doctor's not sure if she'll ever walk again."

Garcia suddenly gave a rattling gasp, putting her face in her hands, and let out a sob. Morgan reached over, as she did to him, and gave a tight squeeze.

So that was the reason why Clarke was here. That was why she was on her way to DC now, and why she was even called to the BAU to begin with. Because an agent was…lost. Unable to work any longer. Sacrificing her quality of life for the job.

Clarke was rendered speechless.

"In the hospital," Morgan interrupted her thoughts. "Hotch was…guilt-ridden. You've noticed the overprotectiveness, yeah?"

Clarke nodded dumbly at him.

"Now you know why. He holds himself accountable—"

"That's crazy," Clarke said automatically. "There's no way that he could have stopped that from happening."

"Of course," he agreed. "Try reasoning with him; it's impossible. He was unable to see past the fact that he was just across the hall. Prentiss asked to speak with him when she woke up in the hospital. She told him that she wasn't angry with him, or even regretful that she was the one to get to the room first. She was actually happy, if you can fathom that, that she was the one that found him and not any of us."

"She's amazing," Garcia sniffed, running her finger under her eyes to fix her running eyeliner.

"She sounds amazing," Clarke confirmed her admiration.

Morgan nodded.

"She told Hotch that she had something important to tell him," he sighed. "Faison was some sort of a…protégé…of someone. Faison had told Prentiss that his 'Master' knew we'd come and had prepared him."

"With dynamite," Garcia laughed harshly.

"I guess the 'Master' couldn't have cared less about what happened to him," he said. "And his protégé was obviously brainwashed. He died for his master. And now," he said, turning into the DC police department parking lot. "We're back where we started. With this '_Master'._"

* * *

><p><em>Washington DC Police Department<br>April 23rd _

It was brutally hot as they exited their SUVs. Clarke immediately tied up her hair as to not be ridiculed by the team when it inevitably expanded. There was already a large sweat spot on the back of Morgan's black tee shirt.

"Aaron Hotchner!" came a cheerful voice as everyone pulled out their sunglasses.

The team looked up in surprise at the approaching man.

Clarke thought the man reminded her of a professor she had had back in college. He had an all-over even tan that anyone would die for, sparkling green eyes, a blindingly white smile, and perfectly tousled sandy-blonde hair. However, contrasting the professor, Clarke took an immediate liking to this man.

He reached out a hand with a Rolex watch strapped around his wrist to their Unit Chief.

"It's just a pleasure to see you again," he said with a nod.

Hotch gave an unexpected smile.

"Paige," he returned and turned to his team. "Thomas, you remember Agents Morgan, Rossi, Dr. Reid. This is our newest addition, Agent Megan Clarke, and our Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia. This is Chief of Police Thomas Paige everybody."

"Agent Clarke," he acknowledged with a sunny smile and shook her hand.

"Sir," she said and offered a similar grin. He was a natural Casanova, although he seemed oblivious to it.

"Now that's a show stopping dress!" he said, turning to Garcia. "And it's a wonderful color on you, Miss Garcia."

Penelope smiled back at him and nodded coyly.

"Thank you muchly," she said.

He exhaled and put his hands on his hips.

"So, shall we go inside? Or would you all like third degree sunburns?"

Rossi and Clarke gave a small laugh.

"Actually, we'd have to stand here for an hour or so for just first degree burns. It wouldn't even be possible-"

"Reid?" Hotchner interrupted.

"What?" he asked and then looked around at everyone's blank expressions. Paige was the first to laugh.

"Just a joke there, sport," he said, unperturbed by Reid's cluelessness, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go inside."

Clarke poked Reid with her elbow and Reid gave a questioning frown down at her. She nodded meaningfully and Reid, realizing he had taken the remark too seriously, gave an apologetic grin at her and followed Paige inside.

They entered the gloriously cool entrance and pursued after the Chief of Police until they had entered the room they'd be using.

There was a circular table in the middle, and two rectangular tables against the walls on either side of the center. Garcia immediately took the desk that pressed against the window, placing her giant purse on it.

"Sorry for the cramped space," Paige apologized, frowning around the medium sized room. "It's the largest one we can offer that isn't filled with junk, but it has a cork board for you all to use. I know you like to have one."

"It's perfect, Paige, thank you," Hotchner assured and everyone began to set up—Morgan organizing files from the Carl Faison case, Garcia booting up two laptops at once, Rossi pinning mug shots of the victims on the cork board, and Reid and Clarke glancing over Rossi's shoulders to peak at the pictures. "We'd like to discuss the differences and similarities between this and the last case to confirm or dispel the theory of the same UnSub."

Paige nodded, his cheerful expression disappearing.

"It's going to be a highly emotional case for my team, but I can't imagine what it's like for you all. If there's anything you need, please do not hesitate at all to ask."

"Thanks, Paige," their boss said. "Your hospitality is always appreciated."

Everyone settled down and opened the files of their current case. The faces of Alexander Boyd and Robert Wheeler stared back up at them.

Rossi started.

"This UnSub is taking the victims' lives as they leave for work," he said, putting a fist in front of his mouth and staring down at the pictures with tight eyes. "Headshots, just like the previous case. Only Carl Faison took the shot in between the eyes every time. This guy's taking any headshot he can get."

"He's less skilled than the previous UnSub," Clarke spoke up and Morgan shot a glance at her.

"He cares less about taking the life," Hotch said crossing his arms. "But he has to take the headshot…that's important."

"Why's that?" Clarke wondered.

"It's essential to the 'Master'," Reid said. He was sitting with the file balancing on one leg, his hand propped his head up on the table. "He either can't kill or doesn't want to dirty his hands, so he has his protégé and this other man do it for him, but it must be by his means. They have to take the headshot and take the credentials off the bodies."

"So what are we talking?" Clarke asked, looking at Hotch. "Another protégé? There was a four month period between Faison's death and now. With that time frame, it wouldn't be impossible for him to train or…teach another student, would it?"

"No, not impossible," Reid agreed, lacing his fingers together under his chin. "In order for this 'Master' to effectively convince his students to do his bidding, they'd have to have some sort of emotional scarring. Missing parental figure, no one to look up to, a huge tragedy in their past; something that'd make them take to the 'Master'," Reid looked to Hotch who watched, absorbing this new point of view. "And people with that sort of background that have jobs usually _are_ in military or law enforcement."

"But if our UnSub does have law enforcement background, why is he incapable of taking the shot like Carl Faison?" Rossi asked.

Reid shrugged slightly.

"Maybe the new protégé's not as skilled with a weapon?" he suggested and Hotch exhaled, uncrossing his arms.

"Something's not right with that," he said, shaking his head vaguely. "If the 'Master' went through the effort and risk of acquiring a new student, wouldn't he look for a man who was already an excellent marksman?"

"He couldn't get a hold of a skilled man who could be convinced to kill," Paige proposed and Clarke began to disagree.

"He has to commit to one student," she said and all eyes went to her. "If he would've tried to go for someone who was a great shot, but couldn't persuade them to follow his directions and kill, that person would have contacted the authorities. If he tried with more than one student, we would have heard about it before the murders even started."

"So he just settled with a less-skilled student who he knew would be as subservient as Carl Faison was?" Garcia asked, but Rossi differed.

"This guy doesn't settle," Rossi said shaking his head, like Hotch.

"A hit man," Morgan interrupted, speaking for the first time since they arrived. Everyone glanced toward him. "Hotch, it makes sense. He's not as skilled as Carl Faison because he doesn't have the law enforcement background. He takes the only headshot he can and takes the credentials for the 'Master'. And the Master wouldn't have had to brainwash him, just offer him cash."

As Morgan spoke, everyone began to nod. It made sense, unlike the previous idea.

"Garcia," Hotch called.

"Sir?"

"Can you find anything on hit men?"

Garcia squinted and scrunched her mouth up.

"I can look for recently released men from prison, look for suspicious arrests. But sir, 'hit man' doesn't exactly appear in employment history."

"Perhaps not," Paige said with a short laugh.

"Alright," Hotch concluded, snapping his file shut. "Dave, I'd like you and Garcia to stay here and finish setting up. Morgan, you and Reid will visit Boyd's crime scene and Clarke, you're with me for the newest crime scene."

Hotch then turned on his heel and began heading out the door. Clarke was left wide-eyed and slightly intimidated, staring out the door after her boss as Reid and Morgan both followed him out.

"Hey kid," Rossi called.

Clarke looked up at him and Reid, hesitating in his stride, glanced back as well before continuing uneasily after realizing he was talking to Clarke.

"Time to go," Rossi prompted and Clarke jumped up. Nodding jerkily, she stood and trailed after her boss, leaving behind a smiling Rossi.

* * *

><p><strong>akacinno's AN**: LOVE Thomas Paige! : )

**dieselwriter's A/N**: The amount of editing this chapter required...urgh! I'm so sick of the word 'Master' now... Hope this chapter came out as clean and tidy (if not LONG!) as we wanted! Until next Monday then! ;)


	5. Chapter Four

**akacinno's A/N**: Never fear Morgan's wrath. He wouldn't harm a fly!...or would he...

**dieselwriter's A/N**: This chapter seems a bit meatier than the last. Definitely be on the lookout for some twists and turns up ahead!

Chapter Four

* * *

><p>"Morgan?"<p>

"What?"

"That was a stop sign, not a yield."

Morgan glanced at him sideways, gave him an unfamiliar half-grin, before slamming on the brakes, causing the tires to squeal their discomfort. Reid grit his teeth but was pleased to find the seatbelt held up to the stress just fine.

"There's your stop."

Morgan extricated himself from the car quickly, not bothering to wait up for his partner and ignoring the looks he received from the officers at the scene. Reid took his time undoing his seatbelt, hoping against hope that some shred of evidence would be present to lift Morgan's mood.

He was sadly and altogether predictably disappointed.

"No prints, no witnesses, no cameras," the officer in charge directed the pair of federal agents to the spot Boyd's body had been found hours earlier.

"So let me guess, nothing left for us," Morgan muttered darkly, eyes narrowing at the bloodstains in the asphalt. "No witnesses right in front of a police station?"

"At two o'clock in the morning? You kidding me?" the officer replied, clearly offended. "And we're not _right in front_ of the station. If we were we would've gotten him on camera. We're at least a block away."

"Two and a quarter, actually," Reid replied. Upon the looks he received from the others he defended himself, "I perused a few maps on the ride up here."

"Which is mostly worthless if we don't know _where_ on those maps our UnSub is," Morgan turned away to glance up at the blisteringly hot sun. "What was the weather here like last night?"

"Clear," the officer replied, looking suspiciously between the two agents as if not believing they could ever get along as teammates. "And warm."

"Do those lamplights work?" Morgan continued his questioning, pointing to the few lights in the parking lot.

"They should. But if they didn't, Boyd wouldn't care. He could look after himself; a dark alley wouldn't scare him."

"It was a waxing gibbous moon last night," Reid informed, "meaning our UnSub would have known visibility conditions by nine o'clock at the earliest."

"Taking a shot in the dark is risky," Morgan concluded, "but not impossible with the right conditions."

"But what does that tell us then?" the officer asked.

"That our UnSub's practiced. He knows his limits and won't take unnecessary risks. He'll take a headshot he knows he can hit, even if it's not between the eyes. He minimizes possible witnesses by taking his victims further away from their work."

"He's not young, then," Reid agreed.

"I already told you that," Morgan frowned but Reid just shrugged.

"And now there's empirical proof."

"Didn't the last guy turn out to be a kid?" the officer piped up. "You profiled him older, didn't you? How do you know this isn't some kid either?"

Morgan turned a rather frightening glare on him but Reid began speaking swiftly before he could say anything uglier than his look.

"The last UnSub profiled like an older sniper because that type of talent with an assault rifle isn't often displayed in someone so young. It often takes years of training and experience to become that talented and precise. The patient and relatively clean kill present in Carl Faison's victims, as well as in this victim, doesn't suggest the methodology of a younger mind. It reads as someone older, at least 40 years of age."

The officer nodded, although his actual agreement could have been influenced by the cold way Morgan was still regarding him.

* * *

><p>Clarke and Paige exited the DC police department together and were instantly immersed in the sticky humidity, feeling as if they were in a sauna.<p>

"Gracious alive," Paige exhaled, pulling at his collar. "This is freak weather, I tell you."

"I feel like I'm breathing in soup," Clarke agreed, reaching up to smooth down her frizzing brunette hair, and Paige laughed.

"So how do you like working at the BAU?" he asked, giving her a side-glance.

"I'm really enjoying it," Clarke answered with a smile as they neared the car, feeling a pang of jealousy at Paige's flawless tan. "It's different, but I work with some of the most amazing people."

"Like that hunky Derek Morgan, huh?" Paige said with a raise of his eyebrows and gave a laugh as Clarke's eyes widened. "Only joking. I know you'd go for Garcia."

Clarke was beyond shocked at this point and Paige was in stitches. She had never encountered someone in this field as outgoing as Paige before.

His chuckles ebbed away with a sigh.

"Sorry about that," he said with a wink. "Hard to do this job without a sense of humor, isn't it?"

Clarke had to give a sympathetic smile and a weak nod at that remark.

It certainly was.

"Ready?" Hotchner inquired as they arrived at the car and Paige offered Clarke the passenger's seat. She accepted it, albeit reluctantly.

Clarke had been alone with her Unit Chief once and that was when she first arrived at the BAU. Since their first encounter, she'd been with them for several cases and never had the chance to speak privately with him. She'd wonder, quiet frequently, in fact, how he felt about her place on the team. Even childishly, she pondered if he liked her.

Although Paige was in the car with the two of them, Clarke could not help but feel anxious at the close interaction with her boss.

"How far away is the crime scene?" Paige asked from the back seat as they pulled away from the station onto the open road.

"Only fifteen minutes," Hotch answered, blasting the air conditioning to the coolest degree.

"Enough time to cover the basics again. So what do we know about our fallen victim?"

"His name was Robert Wheeler," Clarke spoke up, opening her file. "He was shot at nine o'clock today in his right temple."

"He was a Deputy Commissioner," Hotch said and glanced into the rearview mirror, sharing a significant look with Paige.

"Oh," Paige said, sounding put out. "Was he…would the UnSub…consider him…dirty?"

"Depends," Hotchner replied, undeterred by the awkward questioning. "He had his record expunged."

"How severe were his previous criminal charges?" Clarke asked him.

"Petty," he responded shortly. "Negligible charges when he was a minor."

"I remember the name Wheeler from somewhere," Paige reminisced from the back and Clarke turned in her seat to look at him. "Worked with him once, I think."

"You don't remember when?" Hotch asked seriously.

"Not really," he replied offhandedly. "We probably worked on a case back in the day or something."

There was a moment of silence as they took a right onto a street.

"I'm supposing they removed the body from the scene," Paige said aloud, more to himself than to his passengers. "With this heat."

Clarke cringed at the thought of a dead corpse baking in the sweltering sun and she shivered. Even Hotch gave Paige a reproachful look though the mirror, but Paige was staring at the yellow tape outside the window that signified they had arrived at the right place.

"Ready to fry?" he asked as he opened the door and they were again plunged into the unbearable heat.

"Hey, Paige," a light-skinned police officer greeted as the three of them joined the pool of dark, rust-colored blood seeped into the concrete. "How's your team doing?"

"Fine, Dennis," Paige replied. "Although, we've been better."

"I understand that," Dennis sighed and Clarke noticed the second marker on the ground a few feet from the blood.

"Officer," Clarke spoke and they looked to her. "What evidence was here?" she asked, pointing to the marker.

"Wheeler's wallet," he said.

Clarke looked to her boss and was surprised when he shared a look with her.

"Was any money taken from his wallet?" Hotch asked.

"Not that we can tell. He had about a hundred dollars and credit cards still in it."

"But his ID was taken," Paige confirmed with the officer and he nodded.

"The wallet was just tossed aside," Clarke said to Hotch and he too, nodded knowingly.

"He doesn't follow the protégé's MO, doesn't care about setting a stage for us to find. He's much more efficient."

"He's a professional," Paige said with raised eyebrows. "I think Agent Morgan was right: This looks like the work of a hit man."

* * *

><p>"Hey baby girl," Morgan sighed, entering their temporary round table room. "Tell me you were more productive than me and Einstein."<p>

Reid frowned at this nickname, hardly feeling like a theoretical physicist, and dropped into the seat next to the sarcastic FBI agent.

"Just getting the dirt on our victims, sweet cheeks," answered Garcia, whose back was to them as she typed so rapidly that her yellow nails were but a blur. She clicked 'enter' with her pinky grandiosely and spun in her chair to face them.

She made a face.

"Yuck," she commented on their sweaty appearance. "I'm glad my assignment required a sedentary Garcia in a nicely circulated, air-conditioned building."

"You seem pleased," Reid mumbled as he rubbed the back of his neck, which was covered with cooling perspiration.

"We have to keep the mood here balanced, don't we?" Garcia said, squeezing a neon pink stress ball that flashed many colors. She smiled, looked to Morgan who was staring at the victims posted on the corkboard, and her face fell slightly. She didn't have time to address his broodiness as Rossi entered the room with a miniature white board and Expo-markers.

"Hotch, Clarke, and Paige are here," he said and propped the board on the desk as he wrote the names of the victims.

"What are they doing?" Garcia asked, her eyebrows wrinkling.

"Getting Paige some water," he responded, not looking up. "The heat got to him."

"Is he okay?" she asked, concerned for the Chief of Police.

"He'll be fine. Just had a bit of a dizzy spell."

As if summoned by mere mentioning, a pale Paige entered the room, followed closely behind by shaken-looking Clarke and Hotchner.

"You guys talking about me?" was his initial remark as he headed for the first available chair. "My ears are burning. In fact, everything is."

"Are you alright, sir?" Garcia asked him as he took a long swig from his water bottle.

"Better now that you're here," he winked, and Garcia smiled in surprise. Clarke shook her head wearily. Paige was a great person, but he was borderline inappropriate for a Chief of Police in her opinion.

"What did you find?" Morgan asked, sitting up in his seat, imploring Hotch.

"Wheeler's wallet was tossed to the side after his credentials were stolen," he replied, taking a seat, which was uncommon for him. The sun must have exhausted him as well. "It was full with money and credit cards. I think we can come to the conclusion that this is a very practiced hit man. Did you find anything, Garcia?"

"Nothing solid on the similarities between our victims," she said with a wince. "And I've been searching for hints of hit men. Turns out DC is a very large city and there are hundreds of people who seem to have the background of a hit man…but sir," she said, pleading with Hotch to not be angry at her lack of information. "If you really think our hit man is as practiced as you say he is, he won't be so obvious to track. Of those hundreds of names, he's not going to stick out at all. It's like-"

"Finding a needle in a haystack," Clarke finished for her, shaking her head.

"Precisely," Garcia glanced to Hotch whose brown eyes seemed disappointed.

"Alright," he exhaled, keeping calm. "Well, keep searching, Garcia. Until she finds something concrete, we should at least begin a profile."

"For the hit man?" Clarke asked, her eyebrows wrinkling. They had just established that they were incapable of doing so right now.

Hotch looked at her.

"For the 'Master.'"

Clarke's eyes widened slightly and she shared a glance with Reid. She belatedly and embarrassingly realized she hadn't even thought of the man behind it all.

There was a scuffling around for papers and files as they tried to gather all their intelligence when Paige's cell phone went off.

"Excuse me for a—no, no," he declined as Rossi leaned forward to help him. "I've got it. I feel much better now that I have some fluids in me."

He left the room and Morgan looked up.

"He's incapable of murdering by himself," he said. "He has to have a lackey do it for him. Now that could read as two different things: Either he can't or he doesn't want to."

"Taking the credentials is a sign of narcissism," Reid said, tucking a strand of hair away as he looked down at the file. "He needs to feel in control and must express a position of dominance."

"He kills by long distance," Rossi spoke up. "Even if it's not him directly shooting them, it still displays a sense of cleanliness and of distancing himself from the kill. He does it all quickly and effectively."

"People who are dirty," Morgan said calmly. "He kills people who he thinks are dirty, and he kills them in a way that makes him feel as if he isn't dirty. He's a mission-oriented serial killer."

"Agent Hotchner."

The team's conversation dropped just as they had began to build a profile and each of their heads turned to the doorway to see Paige without his usual grin.

His solemn expression set a heavy weight in their stomachs.

"They found another body."

* * *

><p><em>Arlington, VA<br>April 23rd_

"Damn, now I know what Paige was complaining about," Rossi shielded his face even though he was wearing sunglasses.

"There's no shade," Clarke commented with a frown.

"No joke," Rossi fanned himself with his notebook.

"No, I mean, there's no vantage point," Clarke placed her hands on her hips, looking around the parking lot at the lack of nearby buildings.

"A change in MO?" Rossi took in the scene as well, pleased at being out in the field.

"Check it out with CSU. We'll talk with the chief," Hotch ordered Clarke, referring to the Arlington Chief of Police, Kane Pattington.

Clarke nodded as she stepped over to the small group of officers taking pictures of the crime scene.

"This was a bold move," Rossi told Hotch as the Arlington Chief of Police noticed the newcomers and made his way over to them.

"I assume this is your guy's doing?" Pattington approached the pair and took each of their hands in turn as an introduction. "How's your search going?"

"Third body we've turned up in less than 24 hours," Hotch answered.

"I have a few men with the media right now; how did you want this to play out?"

"Keeping this as quiet as possible would be for the best," Hotch replied. "The less our UnSubs know what we know, the better."

"I'll handle it, Hotch," Morgan accompanied his arrival with a hard look at the eager members of the media gathered behind the police tape. He didn't wait for his boss' consent before he charged over, a scowl chiseled in his stony face.

Reid waved an awkward hello shortly after, coincidentally giving Morgan a wide berth, before heading over to the crime scene to give Clarke a hand.

"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Rossi muttered as he watched Morgan berate the befuddled news crews.

"What can you tell us about the victim?" Hotch addressed the Chief, keeping the case's priorities to the forefront of his mind.

"Jeffrey Stover, 47, Senior Accountant. Secretary found him while on a smoke break around 11. His co-workers say he's usually one of the last ones to arrive in the morning and one of the first to leave."

Rossi and Hotch gave each other a significant look at that fact.

"Last to arrive…our hit man knew his schedule, knew he'd be an easy target."

"He may not have needed to be so guarded if the parking lot was abandoned," Hotch nodded his agreement. "KP, how was the body found?"

Kane Pattington wiped away the accumulating perspiration from his brow.

"Hole in the side of his head. Wallet tossed aside, only thing missing was Stover's ID. He had to have taken the shot from halfway across the parking lot; if it had been closer his brain would've been smeared all over the concrete."

"An empty parking lot and he still takes the long shot," Rossi furrowed his brow. "There's a bit of a risk in that."

"Or a comfort zone," Hotch contended. "Any security cameras?"

"CSU's processing them now, but they didn't sound too confident when I talked to them. The footage is grainy and our guy stuck to hiding behind Stover's car when snatching his creds."

"A calculated risk," Rossi felt his confidence swell once again. "Sounds like our man."

"I'm going to let our boys keep processing the scene. We'll send over anything we find to you."

"Thanks, KP," Hotch shook hands with the Chief once more before heading over with Rossi to Clarke, Reid, and Pattington's crime scene investigators.

"What did you find?" Hotch asked his agents.

"Based on the blood spatter, the shot would have had to come from at least 300 yards away," Reid answered, squinting as he looked at the layout of the parking lot. "Given the fact there aren't any buildings around though I'd say he took the shot from inside his car."

"He grabbed Stover's ID and dropped the wallet, which ended up under Stover's car," Clarke continued. "Seems like it all fits in with our guy's MO."

"We deduced the same," Hotch agreed with their findings. "We should head back to the station and give our profile before planning our next move."

"I think I know Morgan's next move," Rossi smiled, pointing over to where Morgan was now arguing with the officers attempting to restrain him from further browbeating the media representatives present. "Preventing that crime might have to be our first priority."

* * *

><p><em>Washington DC Police Department<br>April 23rd _

The team was met with a familiar face as soon as they entered through the doors of the police station.

"Sir—er, Agent Hotchner…. Can I speak with you privately for a moment?"

It wasn't very often that Garcia refused to blurt out her wealth of information, and even more rare was her coming up with proper names for her teammates. Realizing the gravity of this simple request, Hotch did not hesitate to follow after her.

"Don't be jealous," she stuck her tongue out at Morgan as she passed him. His only reaction was to crinkle his brow in suspicion.

"What did you find, Garcia?" Hotch cut straight to the point as soon as the door to the small conference room was closed.

"I think I found the connection with all of our victims," she replied, unfolding the laptop she had been carrying and placing it on the table. "They were all involved in the case of Dustin McLane two years ago."

"McLane?" Hotch frowned. "I remember that one. Didn't he walk?"

"It was such a scandal," Garcia pulled up McLane's mug shot. "Arrested for the murder of his fiancé and her mistress."

"Don't you mean—"

"Nope," she flashed him a brief smile. "He caught the pair of them, released his pent up McLane rage with a golf club, and was arrested later that evening when his soon-to-be mother-in-law came by for a visit to find her daughter dead.

"It was supposed to be open-and-shut but they called a mistrial. And suspiciously enough, a large sum of cash was withdrawn from a friend of McLane's account halfway through the trial and was never seen again. Spooky stuff."

"Hardly. How are our victims connected?"

"Boyd was the arresting officer. Wheeler was the lead investigator. And Stover was McLane's neighbor, a key witness and one of the last people to see McLane's fiancé alive.

"You said it before that this guy targets those in a position of power who are either abusing their power or else disregarding it by using drugs."

"And now they're under a different kind of influence," Hotch caught on.

"Of the monetary variety. Righty-oh."

"Garcia, can you find out who else was primarily involved in McLane's case?"

"Been there, done that, oh captain my captain," Garcia pulled out several papers and photographs. "There's at least six names for certain, although I'm still working on another four."

"I'll take them all, Garcia. Our UnSub might not have all the resources you do and just as well assume that they're all guilty. Excellent job."

"That's what you pay me my meager salary for," she smiled triumphantly, always glad to be of assistance.

"Why did we have to discuss this in private though?"

"Ah," here, Garcia began to fiddle with her bracelet uncertainly. "Check out numero ocho on the list of possible targets."

Hotch's brow furrowed as he skimmed the list for the eighth name. He felt disheartened as he read it aloud, fearing the finality of it rang out like a death sentence.

"Paige."

"Righty-oh," she responded, sounding completely deflated. "Figured it'd be better to slip that news in privately."

* * *

><p>"What do you think they're talking about?" Morgan's brow was furrowed as his eyes stared determinedly at the door separating Hotch and Garcia from the small group of profilers.<p>

"Probably planning an intervention for you," Rossi glanced at the door in mock contemplation. "The way you blew up at those reporters?"

"They were asking unnecessary questions," Morgan popped his shoulder, not looking in the least bit concerned.

"They always ask unnecessary questions," Paige interrupted as he made his entrance, looking much better now that he had time to recuperate in the air-conditioned building. "Those guys, always looking for a scandal."

"Like buzzards."

All heads turned back to the door, which was now opened to reveal the ever-smiling Penelope Garcia.

"Would you all mind stepping inside?" she continued, holding the door open to shepherd in her teammates.

"I'd follow you to the ends of the earth," Paige dazzled her with his sparkling smile as he followed everyone else into the room.

"Always such a gentleman," Garcia blushed, closing the door behind her to take her seat at the conference table.

"So what's the big secret?" Reid asked, splaying his long fingers on the tabletop.

"Garcia's found the connection between our victims," Hotch answered.

Every eye in the room went from the Unit Chief to their technical analyst.

"Well enough of the suspense!" Paige shouted, eyes lighting up in excitement. "Let's have it! Should we bring all the boys in here?"

Garcia glanced nervously at Hotch, who shook his head fervently.

"Do you remember the McLane case, Paige?"

Paige made a few entertaining facial expressions ranging from shock to anger before settling on suspicion.

"Junior or senior?"

"I didn't even know there _was _a senior," Garcia mumbled, resting her chin in her hands.

"Senior was quite a few many years ago. Far before any of your times. Well, except for you, Dave. No offense."

"None taken," Rossi smirked.

"Junior was, what, four years ago?"

"Two, sir," Garcia piped up.

"Only two? Feels like longer since I last saw that dirt bag. Did we put him away?"

"No, sir."

"Bah, well, win some, lose some."

"What's McLane got to do with our case?" Morgan frowned, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Everything," Hotch said, tossing pictures of their three victims on the table. "Boyd, Wheeler, and Stover were all directly involved in the case. Garcia and I surmise the Master thinks the victims were paid off to help get McLane off."

"Then why didn't she tell us all…" Clarke trailed off at the stunned look that crossed Paige's face.

"I think that might have been for my benefit, madam," Paige murmured, running a hand through his blond locks.

"We'll provide protection, for you and all those involved in the case," Hotch said. "That will be our first objective."

"No, Aaron," Paige interrupted, waving the plan away with his hand. "My men can do that. I can pull out old records on the case, see who was involved…."

"Already done, sir," Garcia slid the list over to him, looking subdued. The entire mood of the room, in fact, had taken on a somber note, knowing the danger Paige was now facing.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Paige gave a small but genuine grin. "You leave protection to me, Aaron. You focus on finding this son of a bitch."

"Thomas—"

"No, I mean it," the man stood up defiantly, looking far more serious than anyone had seen him all day. "I won't let this minor setback throw you off the investigation. We need a profile."

No one in the room seemed to think the peril facing the amiable Chief of Police was merely a minor setback, but no one had the heart to depress his spirit.

"Then I have our second objective," Hotch sat at the table, looking around the room at his team. "There are ten names on the list of potential victims, including Paige's. We need to check out their workplaces and see if any of them seem like a target for our UnSubs."

"We've left the media out of this. There's no way the hit man's onto us," Rossi said, eyes narrowing. "You're wanting to set a trap."

Hotch remained stoic as he contemplated the list once more.

"Paige, five of these men are in your department, so I'll leave them as your responsibility."

Paige nodded seriously, easily accepting the importance of this command.

"Rossi, I want you to take the judge. Morgan, you and I will take Lewis and Wilson. Clarke and Reid have Mooney and Sponholtz.

"It's not out of the realm of possibilities that we may run into one of our UnSubs. If anything seems suspicious, call it in immediately."

The room was silent but for the sounds of the team pushing their chairs back and rising to their feet. They shuffled out of the room one by one, the idea of catching the criminals in the act at the forefront of their minds.

* * *

><p><strong>akacinno's AN**: Thanks for reading! : )

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Oh ho ho...next chapter...next Monday... Make like a boy scout and be prepared!


	6. Chapter Five

**akacinno's A/N**: Onward we go! And this is a good 'un! : D

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Teeheehee...for those of you who waited it out, here it is! Chapter Five! And if the last one had twists and turns, this one certainly has a few bumps in the road!

Chapter Five

* * *

><p><em>Law Offices of Preston Mooney, Washington, DC<br>April 23rd _

"I'm afraid we don't have much in regards to security," the young secretary looked nervous as he opened up a hallway door. "Cameras cover the front lobby and loading dock out back, but even then it's not like we have anyone monitoring it 24/7. We're not that big of a law firm."

"It can't hurt to cover the bases, though," Clarke said, giving a fake smile. She had to wonder what the youth would think if he found out his boss was involved in one of the biggest laundering schemes of the decade.

"Guess not," he shrugged and led them into the tiny room.

Reid and Clarke looked at the grainy black and white monitors on the wall, showing the front lobby they had entered five minutes ago and the completely empty loading dock.

"It's kind of pathetic I know," the secretary shifted his feet self-consciously. "It's mostly used to catch loiterers in the back or employees stealing stuff."

Clarke smirked and her eyebrows rose at the irony while Reid kept his face straight, his attention on the monitors.

"Do you know how many people are employed in this building?" Reid asked.

"Ah, jeez," he rubbed the back of his neck in thought. "I dunno…we've got 50 in our firm alone. At least 400, I guess. Why do you ask?"

"Where do you park?"

"Park? This is DC; most people working here take the Metro. I know I can't afford to drive."

"For those of you who can, though," Clarke took up the cause. "Like Mr. Mooney. Does he use a parking garage?"

"Yeah, I've seen him in his Beamer. There's one a block from here. That'd be my guess."

"Perfect, thanks," Reid said, turning his back on the security room and leaving out the open door. The secretary looked confused at his departure and turned to her.

"I thought you wanted to check out some of the security tapes?" he asked her.

"You said it yourself; it's not much," she shrugged as she made to follow Reid. "We're not here to catch a loiterer or thief."

The secretary paled and remained in the security room as Clarke caught up to Reid at the elevator.

"I hope the parking garage has better security," Reid said as the elevator pinged and opened to allow them to enter.

"It can't get much worse," Clarke remarked. "Should I ask Garcia to look in on it?"

"We can check it out first. She's only a fan of a challenge."

She laughed, easily imagining the technical analyst saying as much, before the elevator dinged once again and they entered the lobby. "You know the way?"

"I _am_ the map guy," Reid gave a good-natured grin as he led her out of the building.

"This weather can't be natural," Clarke complained when they stepped out onto the street and pulled out their sunglasses.

"It's unseasonably hot for DC, actually," Reid said, following the path mapped out in his head. "The average high in April is 66. It doesn't usually start hitting the mid-80's until June. Although, it did reach a record high of 95 on April 17th back in 2002."

"Lucky for us it hasn't gotten that bad yet, I guess."

Reid gave a good-natured smile at the fact that she hadn't immediately tuned out his weather trivia, and she returned it as they entered the heavily shaded parking garage. Both removed their sunglasses and examined the space.

"Cameras," Reid pointed out the electronic devices hiding in the corners.

"But no valet service," Clarke commented, glancing around shrewdly. "Guess Mr. Mooney would be on his own out here."

"This can't be it," Reid frowned, squinting around the garage. "There's no visibility; our UnSub has no chance of hitting him. Not to mention how crowded it is down here."

"Then we ride up," Clarke nodded towards a dilapidated elevator. "Top floor might have visibility, space, and Mr. Mooney's Beamer."

Neither said much on the trip up, except to make note on the lack of cameras inside the rickety elevator. They exited on the top floor, both pleased to leave its old confines.

"Nice ride," Clarke approved the Beamer, which was parked by its lonesome far away from them. "Does it make any sense to have a car like that parked in a dump like this?"

"Hiding it in plain sight?" Reid said, walking toward it while taking in his surroundings. "Or efficiency; there's another parking garage four blocks from here that costs twice as much to park but is immeasurably better in regards to sanitation and service. But it would also add on an extra ten minutes to his commute."

"A man who values his time and his cars, then," Clarke marveled at the expensive vehicle, appreciating how displaced it was in the dirty garage. "Hey Spencer, check this out."

"Hmm?" Reid moved to her side and looked to where she was pointing.

"How's that for visibility?"

With the car parked at the end of the garage, the windows of the motel next to them were easy to find.

"If Mooney established a routine and parks here every day then we have a prime target for our UnSub," Reid confirmed but frowned at hearing a noise behind him.

Both agents turned to find the elevator opening and someone stepping out, swathed in a baseball cap and unseasonable dark jacket and gloves.

The figure stumbled to a stop a mere five feet from the elevator when he glanced up and took in the sight of the two federal agents investigating the lonely Beamer.

A leaden weight fell into Reid's stomach and he took an instinctive step forward as the stranger moved backwards.

"Spencer?" Clarke looked between her partner and the newcomer, feeling edgy.

"It's him," he replied, taking another step forward as his hand slowly reached for the gun at his waist.

"It's…" Clarke trailed off as the coated figure stole back into the elevator, and it was easy to see him feverishly jamming one of the buttons before the doors closed on him. "Damn."

They raced to the stairwell, jumping down the cement stairs three at a time. The door banged open and they flew out onto the ground floor just in time to see their quarry turn the corner onto the street.

"FBI!" Clarke shouted ahead of her as they continued their chase, rounding the corner and sprinting between alarmed pedestrians to keep up with the hooded figure half a block ahead of them. "Move out of the way!"

Clarke was surprised to find Reid easily keeping pace with her, his trainers slapping heavily on the concrete in a frantic beat.

The UnSub ran across the street to disappear down an alley and Reid stepped off the curb, meaning to follow.

"_Reid_!" Clarke grabbed his shoulder just as a taxi sailed by, blaring its horn at the pair of them.

"Come on!" he panted, taking better precaution the second time around before running across the street, Clarke on his heels.

They ran side by side down the alleyway and came out the other end to find an abandoned street.

"Damn," Clarke echoed her earlier statement, jogging down the road a bit to see if she could find their man. It was in vain, however; he had seemingly vanished as quickly as he appeared.

"He's got to be here," Reid appeared nervous as he paced down the street in the opposite direction, likewise coming up empty-handed.

"He _was _here," she sighed heavily, swiping at the sweat settling on the back of her neck. "He had too much of a lead on us."

"This is the only big lead we've had all case and we lost it," Reid stood dejected, running a hand through his hair. "Morgan's going to kill us."

Clarke sighed, worried herself about the prospect of thatconversation, when an elderly man stepped out of a store to address the pair of agents.

"You two looking for that maniac who just ran down the street?"

Clarke and Reid glanced at each other meaningfully before returning to their new informant.

"Where did he go?" Reid asked breathlessly.

"Back that way," the man shot a thumb over his shoulder. "Turned left on Jackson."

"Thank you!" Reid called back and they ran off once again down the street, turning left as the man had suggested.

The man in the overcoat was found again, running far ahead of them without slowing.

"Can you get a shot?" Reid asked, slowing only when Clarke stopped to withdraw her weapon to line up the shot.

"FBI!" she shouted again in warning. "Don't move!"

The UnSub glanced over his shoulder before beginning to weave, having no other close streets or alleyways to turn down.

Clarke slowed her breathing as she followed his running pattern before firing. The bullet tore through the material of the man's large coat but otherwise left him unfazed as he continued running. She was able to go through two more rounds before he found shelter behind a parked minivan.

"Nice one," Reid complimented as they took to sprinting after him now that he was cornered.

"Thanks," she replied breathlessly, but she felt any pleasure at the praise disappear the minute she realized that the UnSub wasn't using the minivan for protection.

He was using it as his getaway.

Both Reid and Clarke took aim at the tires of the van as it pealed down the street, but even when one bullet took out a tire it was still able to tear around a corner and disappear out of sight.

"Call it in," Reid said, continuing to sprint after the car.

"It didn't have a license plate," she called after him, deflated.

"Call it in!" he repeated in a shout over his shoulder, not stopping.

Even as she dialed Hotch's number, that nagging feeling of it being 'one of those days' made itself present once again.

* * *

><p>Red and blue lights flashed from the police cars lining Jackson Street. Stopping the car, Hotch unbuckled his seatbelt and went to leave the SUV, while beside him Morgan swiftly exited and slammed the door shut behind him.<p>

"Morgan," Hotch warned, getting out as well, but Morgan paid him no mind as he ran ahead at a driven pace.

Hotch followed, glancing at the investigators who watched Morgan curiously.

"Back to work," he ordered at them and they gave him a reproachful look that he ignored.

"You let him get away?" Morgan shouted as he neared the two FBI agents.

Reid and Clarke, who were speaking to a pair of cops, both looked up in surprise at the sudden verbal attack.

"Did you even chase him?" he asked, fury slicing through his words. "Did you even try?"

"Morgan-" Clarke began, but he cut across her.

"Being new is no excuse," he hissed at her and she winced at the low blow.

"Morgan," Hotch advised threateningly, approaching the group. "Enough."

"No Hotch, not this time," he shot back at him. "Not with this guy. We could have had him."

"He ran into us out of the blue," Clarke rationalized defensively. "And we _did _chase after him-"

"Out of the blue—?" Morgan repeated, incredulous. "The whole point of scoping out potential targets was to find this guy! What part of that is so difficult for you to comprehend—?"

"Morgan, that's—" Hotch began furiously.

"Cool it, Morgan," Reid snapped, stepping in front of Clarke. "If it's anyone's fault, it would be mine. I have more experience. I should have been more vigilant."

"Spencer," Clarke frowned but couldn't continue when Morgan's eyes widened dangerously.

"You're right; it is your fault—"

"Derek!" Hotch yelled, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him away from Reid. They matched each other's defiant stare as Hotch gave him a small shake. "You are completely out of line."

Morgan shoved him away and a moment went by in silence. He glared at the three of them with murder in his eyes, his focus finally landing on Reid.

"If this guy gets away and goes after others," he threatened, his jaw clenching, "The families of our dead victims will have no one to blame but you."

With one last glower, he stormed off towards one of the shops containing the few witnesses to the UnSub's escape. Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, placing the other on his hip, and gave a stressed sigh. As if he didn't have enough on his plate without all of this.

Clarke watched as Morgan shoved past a cop and swung the door of the building open with unnecessary force that nearly made it come off its hinges.

She glanced up at Reid. He was still staring numbly at the spot where Derek had been staring him off.

"Hey," she whispered softly and he blinked. He looked down at her, a need of reassurance in his frown. "There was nothing more we could have done."

"She's right," Hotch said to him and they both looked at him, a bit surprised. "You both did well. I'll talk to Morgan later. Right now, let's stay focused."

Reid gave a half smile that didn't touch his eyes and he and Clarke nodded.

* * *

><p>"So? How'd it go?"<p>

The solemn faces of Morgan, Reid, and Clarke didn't register Paige's pleasantries as they bypassed him to enter the DC police department. Hotch stopped short to eye the Chief of Police cautiously.

"You should be inside," Hotch replied.

"I just needed some fresh air. And look at that sunset, eh?"

Hotch couldn't deny him that request; the heat of the day had finally broken, making the twilight hour quite comfortable. The sun was nestling behind a tall apartment complex down the road, painting the sky vibrant streaks of fierce red, yellow, and orange.

"Besides, Shelly's here to protect me. Aren't you, Shelly?"

The tall, broad-shouldered red head raised an eyebrow but remained stationary at his side.

"Top of her class, that one. Why she's wasting her brains to work for an old geezer like myself is beyond my comprehension."

Hotch offered the man a small grin, pleased to have one moment of tranquility in the mayhem of the day.

"So Aaron, what's got your team in a tizzy?"

Any trace of calm wiped off the FBI agent's face as the memory of what had occurred that afternoon resurfaced.

"Reid and Clarke ran into one of our UnSubs."

"Well that's exciting!" Paige's face lit up enthusiastically. "And here I was afraid we might come out empty-handed! Any way we might be able to establish a pattern? To determine who he might try to go after next?"

Hotch didn't show it, but he felt some of his stress melt, pleased to have such an optimistic spin on what his teammates had so far considered a lost opportunity.

"This was carefully planned in advance. Each strike our UnSub makes capitalizes on the victims' work schedules. He must have a contingency plan set up once we caught on to who he was after."

"Do you think he'll switch targets now that we're on to him?"

"It's possible, but not likely. We've definitely slowed his progress, though."

"Thrown a good wrench in the plan, eh?" Paige said genially. "Good on you and your team."

"We wouldn't be nearly as successful without your cooperation. It's greatly appreciated, Thomas."

"It's always our pleasure, Aaron," Paige clapped Hotch on the back before grabbing his shoulder to steer him inside. "Come, let's talk tactics. Figure out our next course of action—"

"_Down_!"

A shot rang out in the still evening air a split second after both men were shoved forward onto the ground just in front of the door of the police station. More gunfire and shattering glass mingled with shouts and screams in a wild cacophony during the few seconds it took Hotch to regain his feet.

"Shelly! _Shelly_!"

The officer that had been standing at Paige's side to keep watch was now sprawled on the ground, scrambling for breaths as blood pumped out of her neck. Paige was next to her, eyes filled with horror, as he ignored his own bleeding shoulder to stem the flow that was making a pool of thick, cooling blood under her head.

The squealing of tires alerted Hotch to the offender causing the scene. He was running before he was really aware of the sedan screeching around a group of parked cars, making its way to the exit. Hotch stood in the path of the oncoming vehicle, feeling blood pump in his ears.

Adrenaline surged through him as he whipped out his gun and fired at the car.

One bullet missed the mark and hit the road, two ricocheted off the front bumper, and one lodged itself in the windshield, causing the glass to crack. He cursed, willing himself not to go for a kill shot that would prevent them from getting information.

The driver didn't seem perturbed by the attack in the slightest; the car continued its intended path to the exit and freedom. Hotch remained stubbornly in its way, continuing to shoot at it and feeling a small sense of elation when he successfully shot both the front tires with consecutive shots.

Although hindered, the car didn't stop its forward progress. Hotch fired at the hood of the car but it continued to barrel right for him in an unbalanced game of chicken.

It took until the car was mere feet from him for Hotch to realize that he wouldn't win this battle tonight. But knowing the war was still very much up for grabs, he did what he did best: profiled.

In the split seconds it took for the beat-up car to close the distance to the Unit Chief, Hotch's eyes darted from the oak leaf lodged under the windshield wiper to the fine grey dust on the floor of the car to the two black cases—one large and long, one small and worn—settled on the backseat to the driver himself. Ski mask, exposing brown eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. A mole right below his left, dirty blond eyebrow, a small scar on his lip. Large, dark grey hoody that his lanky frame was drowning in. Black gloves partially concealing a black wristwatch.

Hotch jumped out of the way belatedly; the front bumper he had dented with bullets hit him in the knee. The force of the blow made him cry out and his abrupt meeting with the parking lot asphalt made him cringe. The rims of the car sprayed sparks as it turned the corner and eventually disappeared down the street.

The Unit Chief breathed through his nose as his knee throbbed painfully, but inside he felt like he had finally won something. He had prevented the UnSub from getting away without a clue left behind, and thanks to Officer Shelly's quick and brave actions, the UnSub had not accomplished what he had set out to do.

If their UnSub was a risk-taker, it hadn't paid off tonight.

"Hotch! HOTCH!"

Morgan was shouting for him and approaching at an alarming rate. Hotch attempted to find his feet and stumbled when his knee buckled, unwilling to take any weight.

"Easy, Hotch, the bus is on its way," Morgan said on his arrival, immediately taking Hotch's elbow.

"It's just a bruised knee," was his reply, but he accepted the dark agent's support. "We need to act quickly Morgan."

"You're in no shape for that," Morgan reprimanded as he directed his injured boss back to the station. "Some of Paige's guys are already after him."

"That's not what I'm referring to," Hotch said, limping along. "I saw him, Morgan."

Morgan halted momentarily to stare at the Unit Chief.

"We'll need Garcia's help," Hotch went on, hiding a smirk at the surprised look still on his teammate's face. "But I think this might have provided us with a new lead."

Both agents glanced toward their destination, taking in the scene at the front of the police station where Shelly's body now laid motionless. Paige ignored those trying to attend to his shoulder wound, crying silently over the officer who had given her life to protect him.

"I hope it did," Morgan's face darkened as the sound of sirens reached their ears.

* * *

><p><strong>akacinno's AN**: Yahoo! : D See y'all next Monday!

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Waaaah! If this were an episode I would call this the action before the big unveiling! We are getting close, people!


	7. Chapter Six

**akaccino's A/N: **Sorry for the delay! But please enjoy! : )

**dieselwriter's A/N: **Okay, technically it's Tuesday where the fuzzy oranges preside...but on the west coast it's still Monday! Therefore, our unofficial Monday update rule isn't officially broken, right?

Chapter Six

* * *

><p>The inside of the police station was a madhouse.<p>

"Move it!" Morgan's scowls finally seemed to serve a purpose as the scrambling officers made a wide berth around the two FBI agents, meaning Hotch's injured knee was not jostled more than necessary.

"What do you need, sir?" Clarke stepped out of the mayhem by the Unit Chief's side.

"Get everyone and meet in the conference room," Hotch answered, clinging to Morgan's shoulder as they rounded a corner.

"Clarke," the female agent looked over at Morgan as he addressed her, "an ice pack and a first aid kit as well."

Clarke nodded and disappeared back into the crowd.

"Thank you," Hotch said quietly, more than grateful for looking after him when his own mind was consumed by the case.

"Thank Clarke," was Morgan's only response. They turned another corner and Morgan jutted his chin out to the door leading into the conference room. "Mind getting the door?"

"Sure, make the incapacitated man do all the work."

Derek smirked down at his boss as they entered the room that was already occupied with Rossi and Reid.

"Did that guy knock some humor into you?" Morgan muttered, only half-joking.

"With enough evidence to catch him, I hope."

"What's happening?" Rossi asked, rising from his seat.

"Where's Clarke?" Reid looked concerned from his spot, realizing no one followed behind Hotch and Morgan. "A-and Paige?"

"Here," Clarke entered the room, holding a dripping bag of ice and a first aid kit.

"Paige is being forced to go to the hospital," Garcia followed after Clarke, closing the door behind her and carrying her laptop. "I hear he did not go quietly."

"I'd imagine," Rossi said humorlessly, reclaiming his chair as Hotch gingerly sat next to him.

Reid frowned thoughtfully as he reached out to take the medical supplies from Clarke. "I can take that."

"Thanks," Clarke replied, handing her load off to Reid before shaking her wet hand to dry it off.

"Hotch says he saw him," Morgan told the room at large.

"Who?" Rossi's wide eyes darted from Morgan to Hotch.

"Is it all right if I…" Reid hesitated, looming over Hotch, armed only with the ice pack and first aid kit.

"It's just a bruise," Hotch told Reid before looking over at Rossi. "I saw our hit man."

"You _saw_ him…" Garcia looked in trepidation at her boss.

"Here," Reid put the ice in Hotch's hands.

Hotch stifled a groan as the cold ice hit his aching knee. "Garcia, do you still have our list of potential hit men?"

"Hard to misplace it, it's a mile long," she said, rapidly typing on her laptop. "Without criteria, it's impossible to narrow down."

"Good, that's—" his statement was interrupted with a hiss.

"You're bleeding," Reid said, not sounding altogether apologetic.

"Well have at it," Hotch grimaced, readjusting the ice in order to roll his pant leg up to let Reid have access to the injury.

"Thank you," Reid gave a satisfied smile as he opened up the first aid kit.

"What did he look like?" Morgan nearly shouted, looking about ready to flee the room to chase after the perpetrator once he had a physical description.

"He was wearing a ski mask," Hotch said, brow furrowed. "Caucasian, brown eyes, thin frame."

"Excellent!" Garcia's eyes roved over the computer monitor behind her magenta-framed glasses. "Keep it coming."

"He had two cases in the backseat. One was well taken care of and long—"

"Gun case," Morgan supplied immediately.

"—But the other one was small, obviously used…it almost looked like a tool box."

"He could fill that with anything for a job. Binoculars, lock-picking kit…"

"Why would it be more worn down than the gun case though?" Rossi frowned. "He's been working with the weapon longer than anything else."

"He didn't keep his car maintained very well either," Hotch said, wincing slightly when Reid applied antiseptic to the cuts on his knee. "There was a pretty thick layer of dust on the floor. Leaves under the windshield wiper."

"The outside of the car needs to be relatively unremarkable to do the job," Clarke said contemplatively. "The inside is a lot more personal, though."

"A piece of him," Rossi said. "Which means the dust and the old tool box mean something to him, and aren't a part of his job."

"Or maybe they are," Reid said suddenly, poking his head up to look at his colleagues sitting at the table. "A part of his _real _job."

"A construction worker," Clarke answered the unasked question, looking excited.

"Garcia—"

"On it!" Garcia rang out, turning her fingers to the keyboard once again. "Narrowing the field to those working in construction and all related fields."

Everyone waited in a heavy silence that was only punctuated by the rapid-fire typing of their technical analyst.

"Our final count, ladies and gents," Penelope finally stated, clicking her mouse with finality, "is 152."

"_One hundred_…" Morgan began, looking crestfallen, but he stopped at the intense glare Garcia threw his way.

"That 152 came from a potential candidate pool of well over 5,000, I'll have you know, my dear Derek."

"These 152 individuals all have firearms experience?" Rossi asked doubtfully.

"The problem with DC, sir, is that there are many more creative ways to get experience. 87 of those names are ex-convicts, most having been arrested for gun-related gang violence. The rest are ex-military."

"It's good work, Garcia," Hotch said, looking her square in the eye. "We finally have something manageable.

"Our UnSub knows we're on to him now; we need to work through the night. Garcia, see if you can pull files on these 152 men. Let's go through them and eliminate any that we can. We'll start bringing them in first thing tomorrow morning."

"Looks like we have some paperwork to go through, then," Rossi said, standing up to stretch.

"And some files to scrape up," Garcia mumbled, still a bit upset over Morgan's initial criticisms.

"Looks like it's gonna be a long night," was Morgan's only comment as he followed Rossi, Garcia, and Clarke out of the conference room.

"We should find you some place more comfortable to rest," Reid said, straightening up now that his administrations were finished. "You need to elevate that leg."

"Thank you, Reid, but I assure you I'm fine and willing to help," Hotch attempted to stand and realized immediately that it was not a good idea; his knee had swollen considerably, the area visible around the bandage turning a hideously purple color, and protested fiercely at the motion.

"Doctor's orders," Reid grinned before handing him a bottle of aspirin.

* * *

><p><em>Washington DC Police Department<br>April 24th_

Clarke walked up to Hotchner with a solemn face and gave a short shake of the head.

"Xavier Ingram isn't our guy," she said and Hotch sighed and shook another file out of the stack, handing it to her.

"Evan Tyler is your man then," he said and Clarke gave a half-smile before heading to the next interview.

The stack was dwindling slowly, Hotch noticed. There were eighty-plus files still and he had every member of his team, including the DC police unit, taking suspects individually. Normally, Hotch would like two or three agents in an interview at once. However, nothing about this case was normal and the caseload was too overwhelming to take on in groups.

The sheer volume of prospective UnSubs was only half the problem, however; they also had to contend with the fact that a fair number of their admittedly not-altogether-intelligent suspects confess to the crimes committed. The case had made national news and if they were going to go down for a crime, they wanted to go down in an infamous blaze of glory.

Just as Hotch was beginning to lose hope, Morgan rushed up to him, staring at him purposefully.

"I've got him," he said and Hotch put down his files and followed Morgan down the hall.

* * *

><p>Andrew Lee sat, unfazed, in the interrogation room. He yawned and gave his head a shake to wake himself up. He tapped his fingers on the table and proved unsuccessful at stifling a second yawn.<p>

"Does he look familiar to you?" Morgan demanded Hotch as they watched the suspect through a two-way mirror.

"He was wearing a ski mask, Morgan."

"But watch him…does he look like a guilty man to you?"

They observed Lee bouncing his head to an invisible beat, looking utterly bored with his situation and surroundings.

"He's a hit man," Morgan declared, turning to Hotch with tight eyes. "He's incapable of feeling remorse. Makes me sick."

"Easy," he warned and Morgan glared at him. Hotch looked ahead at Lee. "How do you know it's him?"

"He knows every detail of the murders," Morgan answered, his anger simmering under the surface. "The weapon used, the angle he shot from, even the clothes the victims were wearing—things that weren't released to the public."

"Let me talk to him," Hotch said and opened the door to the interrogation room.

Lee looked up from picking at his nails and then back down in disinterest.

"My name is Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," he introduced himself and sat down.

"We've met," Lee gave a knowing grin, stretching the faint scar on his lip, and he gestured to Hotch's knee. "Don't you recognize me? Andrew Lee. I'd shake, but…." He trailed off, moving his wrists around and his handcuffs clanked against the wooden table. "You understand."

Hotch did not reply to his nonchalant demeanor and instead stared intently at him.

Lee leaned forward in his seat, mocking the Unit Chief's concentrated gaze.

"It's a little rude to stare, isn't it?" he asked with a smile and Hotchner held his glare as he placed the file on the table and opened it.

He flipped the photos around and pushed them toward the handcuffed Lee. He was still smiling and broke the eye contact to look down.

He looked at the photos of the dead victims blankly. It didn't excite him, pleasure him, repulse him, or change his expression in any way. He shrugged.

"These don't affect you?" Hotch asked and Lee rose an eyebrow.

"I'm used to it," he admitted honestly. "It's part of the job."

"So you recognize these faces?" he asked and Lee examined them again.

"The cop…" he said nodding down to one. "And the Commissioner. Yeah, I remember them. For being in law enforcement it didn't require much effort to take them out."

Hotch shook his head in disgust and glanced toward the window.

"I guess the obvious question," he said, wanting to end this, "is who hired you?"

Lee smiled smugly at him.

"Sorry, agent," he said with a one-shoulder shrug. "Can't do that. That, too, is part of the job."

"This is not a choice," Hotch said seriously. "I'm not asking—you _will _tell me who hired you."

Again, he shook his head.

"You _do_ understand this is a federal investigation," Hotch said.

"And _you _understand that I'm screwed either way?" Lee sneered at him, squaring his shoulders. "Second you saw me through that windshield; I knew it was only a matter of time before we'd meet face-to-face. There is absolutely _nothing _in it for me to tell you who pays my bills."

"I can help you," Hotch said seriously. "Right now there's no one in DC who would hesitate to hand you over to Arlington's jurisdiction to be tried and sentenced."

"You think I care where they try me? I'm getting put away either way. And they do the same shit to squealers in Virginia as they do in DC."

"Not everything," Hotch raised his eyebrows to give an '_I know something you don't_' look. "I can save your life, Lee."

"Let me make myself very clear, Agent Hotchner," Lee leaned forward in his seat to look straight into his eyes. "I. Do not. Care. And there's nothing you can say or do to change that. Lock me away forever in DC. Death penalty in Virginia. You're not getting anything out of me."

The knock at the door was not unexpected and Hotch leaned back in his seat, not breaking Lee's eye contact. The door opened a second later and Morgan entered a step.

"A word," was all he said before he disappeared.

Hotch kept a steely gaze on Lee and did not make to leave.

"Didn't you hear your dog barking at you?" Lee smirked, sitting back. "He wants out. Up you get."

"You knew we would be on to you soon enough," Hotch ignored him, still wanting answers. "Why didn't you run when you had the chance?

Lee smiled crookedly, folding his hands together on the tabletop.

"You don't take a job like this without taking the credit along with it," he answered with a laugh before leaning his head back to gaze at the dusty ceiling. "Nobody lives forever. And nobody remembers nobody."

Hotch watched him another moment before he rose and left the room, closing the door behind him before greeting Morgan and the newly arrived Clarke.

"I don't know if I'll get very far with him," Hotch admitted and frowned at the expressions on his agents' faces. "What?"

"You sure it's him?" Morgan's eyes looked completely black and empty in the dim lighting.

"He admitted to recognizing me," Hotch's frown deepened, confused by his question. "You said it yourself that it's him. What brought this on?"

"Well according to _her_," Morgan hissed the pronoun like the foulest of curse words as he jabbed his thumb in Clarke's direction, "our years of profiling experience is all for naught. We've got the wrong guy."

"What is he talking about?" Hotch, realizing questioning the hot-tempered Morgan was probably not the best course of action, instead turned his attention to the female agent.

Clarke's ears burned a bright red but she otherwise kept her composure.

"Lee," she referenced, looking through the two-way mirror at their suspect, who was back to tapping his fingertips on the wooden table. "I'm not saying he isn't our hit man."

"But?" Hotch prompted, his gaze stony.

"He's not the guy Reid and I ran into."

"How can you be certain?"

"Lee's 6'2"," Clarke crossed her arms as Morgan huffed. "Our guy couldn't clear six foot. Our guy was also a lot burlier. Darker hair, too."

"He could've been hunching. He was wearing a heavy coat, which would've added girth to his frame," Morgan counted on his fingers as he listed the changes Lee could have made to his appearance to fit Clarke's description. "And a hat and dye job would cover the hair. Added to the fact that you were looking at him a mile away the whole time."

Clarke looked ready to spit flames at him.

"_That_," she pointed to Lee through the two-way mirror, "is not the guy Reid and I chased six blocks," she directed her comment to Hotch, who had yet to deliver a verdict. "And that is all I'm saying. You can believe me or not."

Hotch glanced from the skeptical Morgan to the stubborn Clarke before turning his back on the pair of them.

"There are easier ways to determine who's right," he said before re-entering the interrogation room.

Lee straightened up when he saw Hotch coming back to speak with him.

"Agent Hotchner. Aaron. Can I call you Aaron?"

"No."

"Agent Aaron, then. What brings you by again? Any other matters that need clearing up?"

"I need to know how your deal works with your employer," Hotch shot straight to the point.

"You two were a lot alike, actually, Agent Aaron," Lee looked him up and down as if evaluating him strictly on his physical appearance. "All business. Just a name, date, and time, placed all nice and neat in a package on my doorstep. Had detailed pictures and schedules…anything and everything I needed."

"You didn't scope the scene out for yourself?"

"I did for the first two, but there really wasn't any need; the guy's a true professional, did all my homework for me."

Hotch threw a significant look over at the two-way mirror and had to imagine the respective looks of annoyance and grim victory in Morgan and Clarke's faces.

"Although I must say I prefer your techniques, Agent Aaron," Lee placed both elbows on the table and grinned at the profiler. "Face-to-face; it's much more civilized."

Hotch didn't respond; he merely rose once again to leave.

"Not even a goodbye? I might have to retract my last statement," Lee muttered as he was left alone in the room once again.

The Unit Chief frowned upon finding one agent missing and the other picking up strewn files on the ground that had not been there a minute ago.

"Where's Morgan?" he asked.

"Follow the paper trail," Clarke mumbled from the floor, face red as she pointed out the scattered documents leading out into the hallway.

"What did he say to you?"

Clarke didn't reply right away, instead aiming her stung expression on the files in her hands.

"It doesn't really matter," she said eventually, keeping her eyes downcast. "The upside is that we figured out that Spencer and I saw the Master. That's what matters."

"I apologize," he stooped to help her clean up the aftermath of Morgan's tirade. "I'll speak with him. This has gone on long enough."

* * *

><p><strong>akaccino's AN: **Spring break y'all! Hopefully we will get some work done on a oneshot that will be posted after _Infamy _is complete!

**dieselwriter's A/N: **Guah! Hotch and Morgan showdown next week! (Oh, and PS, next chapter's also the last before the epilogue! Le gaspies!)


	8. Chapter Seven

**akacinno's A/N: **Again, a little late...HOWEVER! It is a good chapter and I think you'll enjoy the epilogue, if I do say so myself. (And I DO say so myself, since I wrote most of it. ; )) Also, if you didn't know, we have a YouTube channel now, dedicated to our Criminal Minds Spoof Series. Here's the link if you wanna check it out! youtube.  
>comuser/thefuzzyoranges?ob=0&feature=results_main

**dieselwriter's A/N: **Bah, it's a good chapter. I wrote all of it and akacinno hasn't read ANY of it...Still, though, it is the last chapter before the epilogue, so for those of you keeping up with the road trip analogy, this chapter would be the equivalent of pulling off the highway and getting those excitabillies because you're finally almost there! (Yes, excitabillies is a word...especially at 2:30 AM.)

Chapter Seven

* * *

><p>"Derek, I think there are some things we need to discuss."<p>

Morgan glared at Hotch from the passenger's seat before turning his attention back out the window.

"I'm listening."

"I don't think you are," Hotch kept his eyes straight ahead on the road, knuckles forming a firm grip on the steering wheel. "And that's part of the problem. You're seeing and hearing, but you are not listening."

"What do you want from me, Hotch?" Morgan sat up and watched his boss' unblinking eyes. "You want me to apologize?"

"That would be a good start."

"Then _I'm sorry_ I'm taking this personally," he spat, sounding anything but repentant. "I'm _sorry_ I can't distance myself from a case where you and Reid and Prentiss got blown up."

"You don't see Reid or myself being unreasonable-"

Morgan's snort interrupted Hotch's argument.

"I'm sorry too, then, that you and Reid have let Clarke in and already forgotten about who Emily was and what she did for this team."

"Do you resent her that much?"

Hotch glanced over to find a suspicious glower hidden in Morgan's aggressive posture.

"Clarke was meant to make contributions to this team, not serve as Emily's replacement. She has been doing a fine job thus far and has done nothing to merit your hostility."

"She shouldn't have to be here!" Morgan slammed a fist into his seat. "And she knows _nothing_, Hotch; she's a liability! How can you not see that?"

Hotch parked the car in front of Andrew Lee's apartment but didn't make a move to exit the vehicle. He turned dangerous eyes to the impatient Morgan.

"I need your head in this case, Derek. If you can't keep your cool, I can't have you here."

"Fine," was the only response he received before the younger agent hastily opened his door and slammed it shut behind him.

* * *

><p>Reid and Clarke watched the ongoing interrogation between Rossi and Andrew Lee with little hope. Lee had one of the worst narcissistic personality disorders either had ever encountered, and paired with a tight-lipped resistance in providing information on the 'Master' meant Rossi was getting nowhere fast.<p>

"So I heard you and Morgan got into another fight?" Reid asked, almost casually.

"I'm starting to miss our old fights about my hair," she answered with a small smile.

"He has a hard time trusting people," Reid responded, hoping that whatever was said in that argument wasn't irreconcilable. "I wouldn't take it personally."

"I'm trying not to," she said, meeting his eyes. "He said some hurtful things to you too, and you've been partners for how long now?"

"Nine years, eight months, twelve days, and three hours, I believe."

"See? If you two can be working together that long and still get into fights, then we should be fine."

"He only gets like this a handful of times, but he usually doesn't lash at his own team members like this. Hopefully we can just get through this case and things will get back to normal."

"I'm not going to pretend like I expected things to go perfectly when I found out I'd be replacing someone you lost," Clarke rubbed a spot on her shoulder. "It might be optimistic, but I…I know this is something we can overcome."

She looked over at Reid with a streak of resolve in her eyes.

"There is something special about this team, for it to have been around for this long. And Derek Morgan won't get rid of me that easily. I want to know how things turn out."

"No, no, I assure you. I'm fine, I'm fine!"

Both team members jumped as a familiar, loud voice echoed down the hall. They shared a confused glance before walking toward the commotion.

"I just, I need to see—move, please! I tell you I'm all right!"

Reid and Clarke turned to head down another hallway and nearly barreled into Thomas Paige.

"Thank goodness!" the Chief of Police exclaimed, left arm strapped up in a sling but otherwise ignoring the injury as he used his free hand to grab Reid by the elbow to guide him further down the hall. "You need to see this."

Reid looked confused but remained silent and Clarke followed behind them, avoiding the glances cast on them by other worried officers.

"Please, come in," Paige ushered the pair of agents into his office, closing the door behind them and shutting the blinds to block out the prying eyes of his staff.

"What's happened?" Clarke asked for both herself and Reid.

"It's gone."

Clarke and Reid looked in confusion at the clearly distraught Paige for a moment before an unsettling flash of comprehension made Reid realize what had happened.

"What did he take?"

It took the pained hesitation from Paige to make Clarke understand what had happened.

"My Medal of Valor."

Clarke raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed, as Reid processed the information.

"When was the last time you saw it?"

"Yesterday afternoon, after my little heat spell," Paige answered quickly. "It sits right on my desk; I'd notice immediately if it were missing."

"Is this hallway under surveillance?"

"Yes, I've already asked our tech guy to pull it up for us."

Clarke looked between the two men, a bit overwhelmed.

"How could this guy just…get through an entire police department and steal something from the Chief of Police without being noticed?"

The silence that followed felt like an indicator of exactly how smart and dangerous this UnSub actually was.

* * *

><p>Reid, Clarke, and Paige collected Rossi from the interrogation room and before clustering behind Penelope Garcia to watch as she rifled through yesterday's surveillance tapes of the hallway outside Paige's office.<p>

"Haven't felt this claustrophobic since that rave I went to last month," Garcia couldn't help huffing in spite of the tension in the room, looking over her shoulder momentarily to glare over the rim of her glasses at the lot of them.

The group apologized and took a minute step back, still eager to find the source of all their current problems.

"Oh, I like her," Paige mumbled under his breath with a smile. "She's got spunk."

Garcia smirked as she leaned forward, concentrating on the video as she fast-forwarded through it.

Everyone jumped when Rossi's cell phone went off.

"It's Hotch," was all he said before he stepped away from the group to answer the phone.

"Did you and Grumps find anything?" Rossi cut straight to the point, unable to hide a small smile at the momentary pause Hotch took to register the new nickname for Morgan.

"Ashes in the fireplace indicate he burned any communications he received," Hotch provided. "There are pictures of victims and we found the murder weapon, though, so we should have more than enough to put him away."

"But nothing on our 'Master'."

"No," Hotch responded heavily. "Has Garcia found anything yet?"

"We're looking through the video, and nothing so far."

"Rossi?" Clarke called over to him.

"We might have something, Hotch. Let me call you back."

Rossi barely heard the affirmative before he hung up the phone and returned immediately to Garcia's side.

"What did you find?"

"The back of a head," Garcia's brows were furrowed in concentration as she zoomed in on a figure onscreen. "He knows the security system well; every time he's in frame his back is to the camera."

"Then let's get the videos for the entire station," Rossi said, getting ready to head out of the room to track down Paige's technical analyst.

"Wait just…" Paige was absorbed with the computer monitor, as if trying to figure out how to continue a jigsaw puzzle after assembling all the edge pieces. "I…I think I may know who that is."

The present members of the BAU team held their breaths, afraid a disturbance might make him lose his train of thought.

"Just…give me a moment, let me ask the receptionist a question."

"I'll go with you," Clarke said, and Paige nodded distractedly, clearly lost in thoughts of the identity of their UnSub as they left the room together.

Rossi and Reid watched them leave as Garcia continued working on the video to try to find a better shot of the thief.

"I'm going to get those tapes," Rossi said eventually, unable to wait for their return without doing something.

"We'll wait here," Reid nodded, resuming his spot behind Garcia's right shoulder as she continued manipulating the feed.

* * *

><p>"We got him."<p>

Rossi and Reid stared at the UnSub on the computer monitor as Garcia leaned back in her seat in triumph. It had taken Rossi five minutes to acquire the tapes and Garcia another fifteen minutes to go through them before finding him, and yet they had still beaten Paige and Clarke to the punch.

"It looks just like the man Megan and I ran into," Reid said, taking in the short, stocky build of the man with cropped, jet black hair.

"The question that remains is _who _is he," Rossi said, leaning forward to examine the broad shouldered man on screen.

"Simon Estridge."

All eyes turned to the door, where an exhausted Thomas Paige stood, giving a tired smile.

"Excuse my absence," he continued, walking towards the group and avoiding the man on the computer monitor. "I needed to confirm my suspicions."

"We need his address," Rossi said, nearly ready to sprint the distance to the location should the need arise.

"I've got it," Clarke appeared at the door, looking a bit out of breath and holding onto a thick folder.

"Paige…" Rossi turned to the Chief, who waved a hand in the air at the team.

"Go."

"This is your case too," Rossi tried, but Paige shook his head.

"I don't want this one. Please."

Rossi nodded before running out the door, Reid and Clarke at his heels. Paige took a seat beside Garcia, letting out a pained sigh.

"Is there anything I can get you, sir?" Garcia asked the broken man.

"Some better friends," was all he said as he finally glanced at the image of Simon Estridge on her computer.

* * *

><p><em>Andrew Lee Residence<br>April 24th _

"There's nothing here, Hotch."

Morgan and Hotch had spent the better part of two hours combing through the house with a few of Paige's men, making sure every possible nook and cranny was investigated so as to not miss any vital piece of evidence linking the hit man to a beneficiary of his crimes.

The last half hour had been particularly brutal, knowing that the remainder of their team was far closer to figuring out the Master's identity than they were.

"We need to make sure he didn't have any safety deposit boxes under his name. Give Garcia a call—"

Morgan slammed his fist against the wall, looking defiant.

"What we _need _to do is go back to the station and figure out who this son of a bitch is."

Hotch turned a cold eye onto his colleague.

"Figuring out who it is won't do us any good if we can't connect these murders to him. Lee's clammed up and Faison's dead; we need a link."

"That's _their _job!" Morgan hissed, pointing a finger at an officer carefully picking through the contents of Lee's trashcan. Realizing Morgan referred to him, he cast a glare in his direction before continuing on with his work. "_We're _supposed to be catching the guy."

"This is _our _job," Hotch said, starting to feel fed up himself. "Catching him won't do us much good if we can't prove he had a hand in any of this!" he gestured towards the desk that was littered with photos of previous victims and potential targets.

The officer at the trashcan nodded his approval of the Unit Chief's words.

Morgan looked ready to say something else but Hotch's phone rang before he could. Hotch looked at him meaningfully before answering.

"Hotchner."

Morgan waited, the anticipation reaching his fingertips, which were aching to finally _do _something constructive. Hotch remained silent for about a minute, absorbing whatever information was being fed to him.

"Understood. We're on our way."

Hotch hung up the phone, looking at Morgan meaningfully.

"They've got him."

* * *

><p>"How far out are Hotch and Morgan?" Rossi asked Clarke as he poured over Eldridge's folder.<p>

"Two minutes," she replied, hanging up the phone.

"What's our ETA looking like, Reid?" Rossi turned his attention to the driver, suppressing a grimace as Reid leaned on the horn to avoid side-swiping a moped.

"Less than a minute, as long as you don't mind me potentially running over a pedestrian."

"Doesn't bother me if it's Estridge."

Clarke gave a short laugh, feeling butterflies swarming around her stomach.

"Hotch say anything else?" Rossi asked Clarke.

"I gave him a bit of Estridge's history. He wants us to wait for him and Morgan, and to be on full alert. Given the previous encounters you've had with him and his henchmen, and knowing what he's capable of, well…he'd rather everyone be here and be vigilant."

"We're here," Reid said quietly, parking at the curb of the neighbor's house.

"Then let's be vigilant. If you see any sudden movements, we go in," Rossi ordered the two young agents. "Clear?"

"Clear," they echoed.

Their attention never left the single-storied house; they took in every curtained window, every detail of the front door, every aspect of the front lawn and what was visible of the back. Not a shadow crossed their sight, and they only exited the vehicle when Hotch and Morgan pulled up a minute later.

"Clarke and I will cover the back," Hotch whispered, drawing his weapon. "Rossi, Reid, Morgan, you take the front."

"On it," Morgan took the lead, not exactly subtle as he moved across the front lawn with Reid and Rossi right behind.

"Let's go," Hotch said, moving toward the back of the house. Clarke swallowed down her nervous energy as she pursued him.

Clarke was surprised at the few things she was able to pick out of the backyard before all her attention fell onto the backdoor and what was hidden behind it: a clearly used basketball hoop with a basketball a few yards away, an old sandbox with a shovel and pale half-buried, a set of severely dented soda cans by the fence.

Simon Estridge may not have a family, but it was clear he'd had children over before.

Clarke placed herself against the wall of the house as Hotch tried the doorknob. Finding it locked, he kicked it in, entering the home gun first.

"Clear!" Clarke heard Morgan shout from the front of the house as she entered the kitchen. She tried to ignore the fact that the refrigerator was cracked open as Hotch cleared the room to enter the dining room.

As each room was investigated and given the all-clear, her excitement was replaced with dread, identifying the signs that Estridge had packed up and left.

The most damning evidence of all presented itself in the form of the bedroom, which appeared completely ransacked. The dressers had empty shelves pulled out, and what little clothes remained were scattered on the floor in disarray. An empty pack of cigarettes was all that remained on the bedside table, and the only thing still on the bed was a pile of blankets.

"He took his pillow," Clarke noted half-heartedly.

"He craves home comforts," Hotch responded, sitting on the bed to massage his aching knee.

"_Dammit_!"

Clarke winced as she heard a loud thump, able to picture Morgan punching a wall somewhere in the house.

"What do we do now?" she asked her boss.

Hotch took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Estridge has been in law enforcement his entire career. He knows how we operate, knows how to disappear off the map."

"So…we wait," Clarke answered her own question.

Hotch nodded.

"We wait."

* * *

><p><strong>akacinno's AN**: Thanks for reading! : D

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Do not distress (yet)! Epilogue will be up tomorrow! You'll get more info on Simon Estridge...and a brief idea of what to expect in our next story. ;)


	9. Epilogue

**akacinno's A/N**: The endo! Hope you enjoy this...: )

**dieselwriter's A/N**: All done. And it feels like we have only just begun...

Epilogue

* * *

><p><em>It is better to go down in infamy than to never go down at all<em>.  
>~Jack Bowman<p>

_Washington DC Police Department  
><em>_April 24th_

"Paige," Hotch addressed and Paige snapped out of his daze, giving Hotch a bright grin. "How are you?"

"Come on," he said with a dubious expression on his face, "can't knock us down that easily! Although I will say I could've done without the injuries that tagged along."

Paige gestured to Hotch's knee with his injured arm and Hotch returned the good-natured smile before facing the team.

"Ready?" he asked them and Morgan nodded in reply as the rest met his eyes with determination. Hotch turned to Paige. "Are all of your men here?"

"Yep," he said and then backtracked. "Well, most of them. There's a few at Estridge's house, but they have most of the information already. There's also a few still investigating at Lee's house. Who's still over there, Devon?" he asked a man to his left.

"I think it's just Jackson and Nate."

Paige nodded and turned back to the agent. "I can pass on the information to them when they get back. We should begin before they scurry." He turned to the room of men and women and cleared his throat. "Attention!"

The murmurs quieted down immediately. Although Paige was an easy-going guy, Clarke thought it was clear that his team respected him immensely. They all stared at him with unwavering focus and loyalty.

"You all know I'm not usually one for big speeches-" a few of the officers laughed at this comment, which made Paige grin, "-_but _I know some of you are worried about where I'm coming from and where we go from here, and I owe it to you, so here it is."

Paige took a moment to collect himself, and Clarke already felt inspired by the man and his devoted team that stood spellbound at his every word and gesture.

"I consider Simon Estridge…well, I _used _to consider him a friend. And I know I'm not the only person in this room who feels that way. For those of you old enough to remember, you know Simon Estridge was an Assistant Chief in our own department and he sacrificed his time, energy, and safety for all of us. And I'm not asking you to forget those memories. That's exactly the way I want you to remember him. That's certainly the way I'll remember him.

"Some of us know about the string of events that led to Simon's breakdown, and for those of you who don't, you'll find out in just a few moments. I hope you'll be able to appreciate the circumstances that led to the Simon Estridge that exists today."

Pursing his lips, Paige swept his eyes over the group, looking defiant.

"Simon has turned into a dangerous man. He is responsible for the deaths of seven people that we know of. It might even be more. He has a strong motivation, a strategical mind, and he _knows _us. We trained him. He's one of the best.

"This new Simon Estridge is not a man who should warrant your pity or your mercy," Paige continued, a steely note entering his tone. "As far as I'm concerned, the old Simon has passed, and he will always be a friend to me. If you have any doubts about the new Simon and how far gone he is from our old compatriot, know that he made an attempt on my life and took one of our own, one of our youngest and brightest.

"This is going to be a hard one, guys," he concluded on a rather simple note to try to ease the tension in the room, "but I need every single one of you and I need all of your effort in this. If any of you has any concerns you can always come to me. But right now I need you all to listen up and wait until the end for further questions. Understand?"

"Yes, Chief," was the unified response. He nodded at them and turned to Hotchner once again.

"The stage is yours," he told him, stepping back.

"Thank you," Hotch said before taking over the group's attention.

"I cannot pretend to define the relationships Simon Estridge had with each of you and lecture you on how to overcome that barrier on this case," he spoke and the room, if possible, got even quieter. "But I can appreciate the relationships I have with my own colleagues and know that what we are about to convey to you may be hard to hear and remain unbiased towards. All I ask of you now is to listen to the facts."

"Simon Estridge comes from a family of three children," Reid informed, feeling a bit of pressure at having to follow enigmatic speakers like Paige and Hotchner. "It's not unusual he took Carl Faison under his wing so easily; being the oldest of two younger sisters, he assumes responsibility by nature," he glanced over to Clarke and nodded.

She cleared her throat, feeling a similar pressure.

"Five years ago, Chief Paige and Estridge received Metals of Valor for their efforts in a high speed chase. The car they were after ran off the road, and the Chief was able to apprehend the fugitive from the burning car while Estridge saved a hostage. The incident left severe burns on Estridge's hands, making him unable to reliantly fire a weapon and confining him to desk work."

"Three years ago," Rossi continued on, "his mother and one of his sisters were killed in a car accident. A cop named Eddie Summerfield rear-ended them at a red light and plowed them into the middle of the intersection with oncoming traffic." Several of the police officers shook their heads. "Simon did his research after the accident. Eddie was a recovering alcoholic. Although Eddie wasn't drunk the night of the accident, Simon most likely saw him as tainted, a corrupt authority figure."

"A few months after his mother and sister died, Simon's youngest sister called him, claiming she had been raped," Morgan explained with his hands in his back pockets. This didn't seem like news to most of the crowd, but they still looked upset by the information. "She filed charges against her attacker, a pilot in the Air Force, but without witnesses or solid evidence the case was dropped.

"I'm sure you all remember the aftermath, when Simon was Honorably Discharged after his mental breakdown. The rape of his sister was the last injustice he stood for and he snapped."

"It wasn't long after his discharge that Carl Faison sought out Estridge," Hotch said and all attention shifted to him. "Estridge welcomed him with open arms, and his natural ability to lead and nurture combined with his new motive to avenge his mother and sisters made Estridge an effective teacher in long distance serial killing. Faison, who was Dishonorably Discharged from his SWAT division after shooting a civilian and was a predisposed serial killer, made a perfect student."

"After Faison died, Estridge had to find a new protégé," Reid stepped in again. "Now if there's something you need to know about Simon, it's this: although he killed people, he never saw himself as dirty. He believes that he _has _to kill, that it is a justice that his mother and sisters never received, and he would never do it in a way that seemed dishonorable. No slitting throats or stabbing people, because those methods are personal and painful. He has his underlings shoot from long distance because it gets the job done quickly and physically separates them from the deed. He takes their credentials as a reminder of the good he believes he is doing."

"Simon does not have remorse for the things he's done," Hotch said in a low voice. "He doesn't think what he's doing, the people he's killing, is wrong. And he will not stop. He will lie low for now, but we will hear of him again and we _will _catch him."

The room was silent for a while as the information sunk in.

"Thank you," Paige came forward to speak to the crowd once again, "for your attention and your help. And for you," Paige turned to Hotch, extending his hand. "We appreciate everything you've done for us, Aaron. We all do."

There was a hushed mumble in the room as the men and women murmured their thanks. Hotch shook Paige's hand.

"We'll be back," he said before Paige dismissed his team. As the room regained a hustle and bustle cacophony, Hotch addressed his team.

"You have five minutes," he said, picking up his bag and wincing at the pain in his bruised knee. "Gather your things and meet in the parking lot."

They all nodded and as they collected their bags and documents, Paige noticed the unhappy expression on Clarke's face.

"What's the matter, sunshine?" he asked casually, gingerly fingering his injured shoulder. "Keep wrinkling your forehead like that and you'll ruin that pretty little face of yours."

Clarke gave him a brief smile before the frown settled back into her features.

"I know there's not much more we can do here," she said as the rest of the team filtered out of the room, "but I can't shake the feeling that we're sort of…giving up."

Morgan overheard her comment and glanced over his shoulder. Clarke caught his gaze, half expecting a glare to be aimed her way, but instead he gave her an almost sad expression. In a way, he looked almost apologetic.

Clarke blinked and Morgan turned around again, exiting the building.

"You've done all you can do," Paige said, pulling Clarke away from the silent interchange, "and we're very thankful for that. All we could do is let everyone know the facts and hope that the day where we can put him behind bars will arise before he hurts any more people."

Clarke thought about his words and then smiled at him.

"I know you're right," she said and he beamed at her. "It doesn't make walking away any easier, though."

He gave a heavy sigh and placed his good arm around her shoulder.

"It never is," he said and gave her a sad smile as the exited the building, back into the heat.

* * *

><p>There was a cell phone ringing throughout the motel room. At the second chime, the last name, Steele, appeared on the screen. A heavily scarred hand reached over and clumsily picked it up off the desk. It rang two more times in his hand before the decision was made and the owner answered.<p>

"Hello?"

"Hey, Simon, what's going on?"

The scarred hand reached for the gun sitting on his bed.

"Nathan? What are you up to?"

"Just finished up searching a suspect's house on this LDSK case and now I'm heading back to the station," he laughed. "They had me and Jackson digging through every trashcan in the dump."

The man kept his finger off the trigger, eyes glued to the door of the motel room.

"Sounds like good investigative work there, officer."

There was a pause in the conversation.

"Hey, Simon…if there's anything I can do for you…I know Carl's death hasn't been easy for you."

"Of course not…he was like a son to me…but I'll be fine, Nate. You're doing enough as it is. When I talk to you, you make me feel like I'm still there working at the station. I love hearing about how everyone's doing. Makes me think of the good old days…"

He paused.

"How _are_ things going at the station?"

"Oh, pretty good. Jackson thinks we'll have this case wrapped up this week. I disagree. Just because we've got the hired hand doesn't mean we're anywhere close to the man behind the curtain, right?"

"Right," he responded, placing the weapon back on the bed and going for the cigarettes in his pocket instead. "Well, assuming Jackson's right, any plans for the weekend?"

"Ha, well, there was a flyer going around for a seminar Friday night. There's a guy coming who used to be hooked on Dilaudid. I dunno, I guess I thought it'd be interesting."

_ Dirty._

There was another pause as the man felt the new information surging through his mind.

_ Stay calm. Don't get too excited._

"Clean Cops, huh?"

"Yeah. The guy's from the BAU. FBI, can you believe it?"

With his heart hammering in his chest, he dropped the pack of cigarettes next to his gun and almost squeaked out the next question.

"Do you remember his name?"

"Yeah, I think I have the flyer, hold on."

The seconds ticked by slowly and his heart continued to thunder with anticipation.

"You find it?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly.

"Yeah, I found it," Nate replied and the man heard the sound of paper rustling. "Here it is. His name is Spencer Reid."

* * *

><p><strong>akacinno's AN**: Squeeee! : ) Hope you enjoyed it, folks! Leave a review if you liked it- we appreciate the feedback we receive. Thanks!

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Oh, it feels like it's only just begun because it _has _only just begun. Bwuahahahaha! No fears; a sequel is in the works! Thanks for sticking it out until the end with us; my sister and I enjoy working with each other on something we both enjoy so much and we just hope you had as much fun reading it as we did writing it!


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